9 


[See  p.  186 

'ALL     THE     THINGS      I      CANNOT      SPEAK      I      WILL     TELL      YOU. 
SHUT      YOUR      EYES      AND      LISTEN" 


IS  IT 
ENOUGH? 

A    ROMANCE    OF   MUSICAL    LIFE 

BY 
HARRIETTE   RUSSELL  CAMPBELL 


HARPER   6-   BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW.   YORK    AND    LONDON 

MCMXIII 


COPYRIGHT.    1»I3.    BY    HARPER   A    BROTHERS 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED    JUNE.     1813 


E-N 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 


2134S37 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 


CHAPTER  I 

THERE  were  never  many  passengers  on  the  11.23 
from  Boston,  and  on  the  particular  morning  in 
August  with  which  we  are  concerned  there  were 
only  three.  The  first  to  get  off  was  an  old  lady 
whose  relief  at  the  sight  of  a  bustling  young  woman, 
evidently  there  to  meet  her,  was  pretty  to  see.  The 
second  was  a  spruce  clerical  person  who  knew  so  well 
what  he  was  about  that  he  subdued  rather  than  ex- 
cited curiosity.  The  third  was  a  man. 

Mr.  Hiram,  who  transported  luggage  for  a  living 
to  and  from  the  station,  had  watched  the  first  two 
descend  and  go  on  their  way  without  rousing  him- 
self from  his  habitual  attitude  on  the  seat  of  his 
wagon,  the  reins  caught  in  the  crook  of  his  left  arm, 
one  leg  over  the  arm  of  the  seat,  and  his  right  hand 
free  for  the  regular  removal  and  replacing  of  his  clay 
pipe,  as  he  watched  over  his  shoulder  for  a  likely 
customer.  But  'when  the  third  passenger  reached 
the  gravel  platform  and  paused  there,  Mr.  Hiram 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

sat  up,  swung  both  legs  about  over  the  low  back  of 
his  driving-box,  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
whistled.  As  so  much  exertion  betrayed  an  un- 
usual and  striking  degree  of  interest,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed that  there  was  something  uncommon  to 
Beverly,  Maine,  in  the  appearance  of  the  stranger. 

He  was,  at  first  sight,  a  peculiar  figure  enough  for 
a  New  England  town;  even  for  a  town  which  was 
beginning  to  wake  to  new  movements,  to  acquire  a 
utilitarian  ugliness  and  a  veneer  of  prosperity  which 
replaced  the  untroubled  shabbiness  of  a  former  day. 
He  was  young  without  any  air  of  boyishness,  of  in- 
conspicuous build,  and  his  clothes  were  so  old  that 
they  fitted  the  line  of  his  figure  with  a  kind  of  grace. 
He  wore  no  tie,  and  his  collar,  even  at  a  distance, 
gave  an  impression  of  being  anything  but  fresh.  His 
hair  was  long,  and  his  hat  a  shapeless  felt  arrange- 
ment, which  also  had  an  air  of  belonging  to  him  in 
a  particular  sense.  No  one  would  have  supposed 
him  to  be  an  American.  His  face  had  a  kind  of  full- 
lipped  comeliness,  and  he  bore  himself  with  an  un- 
consciousness which  is  the  happiest  vehicle  of  per- 
sonality. 

He  was  laden  with  a  paper  parcel  and  a  violin- 
case,  and  it  was  with  no  hope  of  a  job  that  Mr.  Hiram 
regarded  him,  for,  having  paused  to  get  an  idea  of 
his  surroundings,  the  man  sauntered  down  the 
cinder  walk,  passed  the  pink  station-house,  and 
turned  from  sight  down  the  shaded  street. 

The  day  was  hot,  and  the  man's  face  was  wet  and 

2 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

dirty,  his  hair  matted  on  his  forehead.  Once  or 
twice  he  stopped  to  rest  or  to  watch  a  cart  go  by, 
wiping  away  the  dust  its  wheels  threw  into  his  eyes. 
As  he  crossed  the  road  into  the  main  street  he  had 
to  turn  out  several  times  for  the  frequent  and  hur- 
ried resident  who  seldom  failed  to  throw  him  an 
amused  or  curious  glance.  At  the  corner,  where  the 
heat  was  exhausting,  he  went  inside  a  grocery  store, 
and,  putting  his  violin-case  down  with  care  and  toss- 
ing the  parcel  aside,  he  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped 
his  brow  with  a  handkerchief  so  soiled  that  there 
was  small  choice  between  it  and  his  face. 

The  grocer  had  come  forward  at  his  entrance, 
and  now  stood  looking  with  worn  eyes  upon  his 
face.  When  the  stranger  had  tucked  his  handker- 
chief away  the  little  man  spoke : 

"New  to  this  town,  I  guess — eh?" 

"But  yes.     A  foul  sort  of  place." 

Eben  Harrison  allowed  his  lip  to  curl. 

"That's  jest  like  a  foreigner.  Anyhow,  we  wash 
once  a  week.  We  even  wash  our  streets,  not  to  say 
our  faces.  There's  a  book  about  us."  He  indicated 
a  pile  of  small  pamphlets.  rtCome  for  long?" 

"I  am  looking  for  a  place  to — what  you  call — 
board." 

"Permanent?" 

"That  would  depend.  For  a  time — "  He  sup- 
plied a  gesture  of  his  shoulders  in  place  of  further 
words. 

"Wai,  they's  the  hotel.  Clark's  is  temperance — 

3 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

guess  you  wouldn't  like  that;  but  they's  Bullis's, 
too.  Don't  care  who  they  take  there.  Is  that  a 
fiddle?  Bullis  'd  jest  be  in  your  line.  They  make 
a  lot  of  noise  there  of  a  Saturday  night." 

The  stranger's  face,  already  red,  assumed  a  heavier 
tone,  and  his  voice  deepened  as  he  stumbled  over 
violent  words,  many  French,  a  few  German,  and 
occasionally  one  that  was  English. 

"I  am  a  musician,"  he  finished,  "and  you — I  see 
it — are  a  fool." 

Eben  took  the  accusation  with  great  calmness. 

"Wai,  I  guess  I  dunno  much  more  'bout  your 
bein'  a  musician  than  you  do  'bout  my  bein'  a  fool. 
But  I  tell  you  what — you  try  Miss  Massam.  I 
heard  she  was  lookin'  out  fur  a  roomer,  an'  she's 
mighty  fond  of  a  tune.  You  try  her." 

"And  the  lady— she  lives — ?" 

"You  jest  turn  down  the  first  street  to  the  right. 
You  pass  the  Town  Hall  'n'  Pliny  Rawson's  barber 
shop  'n'  you'll  come  to  a  white  house  'thout  a  verandy 
— jest  a  stoop  to  it.  The  front  blinds  are  alias  shut, 
an*  they's  a  lilac  bush  to  the  door  'n'  a  yard  on  the 
side  with  some  roses.  You  try  Miss  Massam." 

The  stranger  picked  up  his  burdens  and  moved  to 
the  door. 

"Stay!"  called  Eben. 

The  man  paused. 

"What's  yer  name,  Frenchy?" 

"It  is  my  own — to  give — or  not  to  give — Imbecile!" 

The  walk  was  not  long,  but  the  sun  was  in  the 

4 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

ascendant  and  the  heat  growing  more  withering. 
The  man  was  weary,  and  his  temper  not  improved 
by  his  encounter  with  Yankee  wit.  Watching  for 
landmarks,  he  walked  on,  resenting  the  trying  condi- 
tions, his  mind  a  chaos  of  rebellion  against  restrict- 
ing circumstances.  Life  was  evil!  That,  of  course! 
Had  it  not  presented  to  him,  Jean  Kontze,  innumer- 
able difficulties  and  inconveniences?  The  country 
of  his  adoption  was  a  country  of  idiots.  That,  too, 
of  course!  Had  it  not  received  him  and  treated  him 
with  consistent  neglect?  This  particular  town, 
where  he  had  expected  not  only  to  find  work,  but 
easy  triumph,  seemed  to  be  on  a  par  with  all  the 
rest.  Carriages!  Dust  and  heat!  Busy  jostlers  of 
of  all  ages  and  types,  all  alike  ignoring  the  fact  of 
his  genius,  all  enemies,  therefore,  and  a  sun  bent 
on  burning  the  soul  out  of  one's  body.  It  was 
abominable! 

Carried  along  by  such  reflections,  he  reached  the 
house.  He  opened  the  gate  in  an  ecstasy  of  indigna- 
tion that  it  should  stick.  As  he  mounted  the  steps 
the  door  opened  and  a  man  came  out  so  hurriedly 
that  in  brushing  roughly  against  Jean's  arm  the 
violin-case,  though  firmly  held,  was  driven  from  his 
grasp.  Jean  leaped  to  rescue  his  treasure.  He 
picked  it  up  and  held  it  to  him  with  straining  arm, 
and  turned  to  annihilate  the  offender.  Fury  found 
voice,  and  that  it  spoke  in  a  foreign  tongue  did  not 
detract  from  its  force.  At  last  the  victim's  face 
began  to  flush,  and  what  the  result  would  have  been 

5 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

would  be  hard  to  say  if  just  then  an  interruption 
had  not  been  made  by  the  opening  of  a  window  and 
the  appearance  within  it  of  a  woman's  head. 

"Just  a  stranger  I  ran  into,  Miss  Massam,"  said 
the  man.  "He's  a  good  deal  put  out.  I  am  sorry," 
he  added,  turning  to  Jean,  "but  you  ought  to  look 
where  you  are  going.  I  don't  suppose  I  hurt  you 
much,  and  I  don't  like  being  sworn  at  on  a  lady's 
doorstep.  Good-by."  He  made  the  lull  a  moment 
for  departure. 

Jean,  looking  after  him,  still  unbearably  angry, 
had  time  to  realize  that  if  he  did  not  care  for  further 
trudging  in  the  sun  it  was  time  to  make  himself 
pleasant.  Miss  Massam  had  come  to  the  door  and 
had  opened  it,  and  disfavor  narrowed  her  short- 
sighted eyes.  He  took  off  his  hat  with  grace  and 
smiled  at  her. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  made  so  much  disturbance, 
but  this — it  is  all  I  love.  You  will  perhaps  forgive." 

There  was  some  relaxing  of  the  face  into  which 
he  looked,  but  no  softness  in  her  words. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"They  directed  me  here  to  find  a  room." 

"Wai,  they  directed  you  wrong.  I've  jest  let 
my  room  to  that  young  man  you  talked  so  wicked 
to." 

Jean  stooped  and  picked  up  the  paper  parcel. 
He  really  was  tired.  He  was  also  hungry  and 
thirsty.  He  did  not  want  to  walk  the  length  of 
Maine  Street.  He  wanted  to  sit  down  in  the  cool 

6 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

and  quiet,  take  off  his  collar  and  look  to  his  fiddle, 
and  he  wanted  some  one  to  bring  him  food  and 
drink. 

"May  I  rest — only  one  moment?"  he  asked, 
mildly. 

Though  she  looked  at  him  sharply,  she  did  not 
refuse,  but  let  him  pass  in  at  the  shaded  doorway 
to  the  cool  room  beyond.  Here  the  mellow  colors, 
the  quiet,  comforted  him,  and  he  did  not  see  that 
the  carpet  was  worn  and  the  curtains  faded  and 
darned. 

"If  I  might  ask  a  glass  of  water?"  he  pleaded. 

She  brought  it,  and  with  it  a  plate  of  bread  and 
butter.  As  he  ate  with  the  haste  and  awkwardness 
of  a  man  who  lives  alone  she  watched  him. 

"Is  this — it  is  the  room?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     I  get  five  dollars  a  week  with  board." 

"Ah,  you  mean  food.  I  cook  for  myself,  and 
would  pay  four  dollars." 

"Wai,  yer  don't  look  steady." 

"Madam,  I  must  be  steady!"  He  unlocked  the 
case  and  took  out  his  violin  and  the  bow.  "This — 
it  is  my  mistress  and  my  life — also  my  daily  bread. 
The  hand  that  gives  her  to  speak  must  never  tremble. 
I  am  a  musician." 

The  lady  eyed  the  instrument,  and  as  he  divined 
the  eagerness  she  would  not  speak,  he  put  it  to  his 
cheek,  testing  the  strings,  so  that  she  could  see  the 
tender  play  of  his  fine  hands.  Then  he  took  up  his 
bow  and  played  to  her,  first  softly,  then  with  in- 

7 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

creasing  confidence  as  he  saw  her  smile.  He  gave 
her  light  airs,  which  she  could  understand,  till  her 
foot  went  tapping,  tapping  the  worn  carpet  and  her 
eyes  brightened  with  pleasure.  He  slipped  into  a 
Spanish  dance,  and  then  changed  sharply  into  a 
folk-song  of  sad,  uncanny  beauty.  In  another  mo- 
ment he  made  her  feel  young,  stirring  a  forgotten 
and  forsaken  heart.  He  made  her  sense  and  thrill 
to  things  she  would  have  repulsed  had  they  come 
to  her  in  so  concrete  a  form  as  a  thought.  He 
turned  the  room  into  a  palace  of  enchantment,  and 
he,  the  master  of  mystery,  wielded  his  genius  for 
her  as  if  she  had  been  a  queen.  When  he  laid  down 
his  bow  she  released  the  sigh  that  told  him  what  he 
had  done  for  her. 

"It  was  real  pretty,"  she  said. 

"If  I  could  stay  here  you  would  have  much  of 
my  music,"  he  said.  "I  like  these  gentle  walls,  and 
you  are  kind.  I  should  like  to  think  that  you  lis- 
tened to  my  music.  It  would  help.  Yes!  I 
must  go?" 

"I've  promised  Simeon  Pierce." 

"Simeon  Pierce!  Do  not  talk  to  me  of  him!  It 
is  I  who  work  and  sleep  in  four  walls.  It  is  I  who 
must  stay  here." 

"Wai,  of  course,  I  didn't  want  to  do  fur  my 
roomer,  an'  Simeon  he  can't  manage  fur  himself." 

"Ah,  you  see,  it  was  planned  for  us — I  for  you  and 
you  for  me.  And  I  am  so  tired." 

He  was  standing  near  the  window,  and  as  he 

8 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

glanced  out  at  the  hideous  heat  and  glare  of  noon 
he  found  something  for  his  eyes  which  held  them. 
At  the  gate  stood  a  girl.  He  could  see  her  profile 
against  the  green  of  her  sunshade.  She  wore  no 
hat,  and  the  whole  pure  outline  from  brow  to  chin 
was  relieved  to  his  eyes  by  the  darkness  behind. 
He  saw  that  she  was  talking  to  a  man.  In  another 
moment  he  saw  that  she  was  talking  to  the  man 
who  had  knocked  his  case  from  his  hand  half  an 
hour  earlier.  She  was  talking  gaily,  eagerly,  laugh- 
ing often,  her  hair  sparkling  with  each  motion  of  her 
head,  her  color  and  brilliancy  and  youth  lavish  in 
their  display. 

"That  is  Hild  Emery,"  said  Miss  Massam.  She 
had  moved  to  the  window  to  see  what  it  was  that  he 
watched.  "She  and  her  mother  rent  the  other  half 
of  my  house.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do!"  she  added, 
suddenly.  "I'll  take  you  in  if  you'll  give  Hild 
music  lessons.  She's  a  pet  of  mine,  an'  she's  good 
at  her  music.  Will  you?" 

Simeon  Pierce  had  lifted  his  hat  and  was  swinging 
down  the  street,  his  long  stride  carrying  him  out 
of  sight  none  too  soon  for  the  man  who  watched. 
Simeon,  too,  was  young  and  well  colored.  The  girl 
came  slowly  up  the  walk  toward  the  house. 

"I  will  teach  her.     Oh  yes,"  said  Jean. 

The  shadow  of  the  house  fell  over  the  girls's  white 
gown  and  put  out  the  gold  of  her  hair. 


IT  was  an  experience  of  sharp  contrast  to  go  from 
one  side  of  Miss  Massam's  house,  across  the  bare 
hall,  into  the  other  side.  The  rooms  the  old  lady 
had  retained  for  herself  boasted  only  such  comfort 
as  lingered,  after  fifty  years  of  hard  use,  in  belong- 
ings collected  in  an  age  when  horse-hair  and  ma- 
hogany represented  the  accepted  ideal  of  luxury. 
Four  feet  away  a  door  opened  upon  a  room  fitted 
with  soft  chairs  and  old  rugs,  quaint  china  and  bits 
of  prettiness,  commonplace  enough  elsewhere,  but 
very  captivating  to  Beverly,  Maine.  Miss  Massam 
was  among  those  who  looked  with  suspicion  upon 
Mrs.  Emery's  parlor,  and  she  rarely  yielded  to  the 
seductions  of  its  easy-chairs.  She  found  it  possible 
to  refrain  from  expressing  herself  on  the  subject, 
however.  Mrs.  Emery  paid  a  good  rent;  also  Miss 
Massam  had  learned  to  find  pleasure  in  Hild's  young 
propinquity. 

It  was  too  much  to  expect  that  Miss  Massam's 
Beverly  should  approve  of  Mrs.  Emery  at  all.  Miss 
Massam's  Beverly  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  bustle 
and  prosperity  of  Maine  Street,  you  understand. 
It  had  to  do  with  square,  flat-faced  houses  set  back 
from  busy  streets;  with  a  wooden  Congregationalist 

10 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

meeting-house,  which  had  wanted  a  coat  of  paint 
ever  since  any  one  could  remember,  with  the  plank 
walks  which  rotted  in  no  time,  and  which,  if  one  trod 
unwarily  on  their  outer  edges,  were  likely  to  rise  and 
deal  one  a  masterly  blow  upon  the  cheek.  It  had  to 
do  with  the  simplest  and  most  rigid  of  definitions 
for  a  few  abstractions,  and  it  had  nothing  at  all  to  do 
with  modern  problems.  It  did  not,  for  instance, 
understand  why  Milly  Stevens,  in  writing  home 
about  Mrs.  Emery,  should  lay  so  much  stress  on  the 
fact  that  she  had  divorced  her  husband,  not  he  her. 
That  the  marriage  had  been  a  failure  was  all  that 
was  clear  to  Beverly. 

On  a  night  a  few  days  after  the  arrival  of  Miss 
Massam's  new  boarder  Mrs.  Emery  had  gone  out  to 
play  a  quiet  game  of  whist  at  Senator  Carson's. 
The  lights  were  out  in  the  parlor,  for  the  night  was 
sultry,  and  doors  and  windows  were  open  to  catch 
what  breeze  there  was. 

Miss  Massam  had  added  for  her  tenants  a  tiny 
veranda,  which  overlooked  a  few  roses  and  shrubs 
on  a  weedy  lawn.  Here,  on  this  evening,  sat  four 
young  people,  so  happily  at  their  ease  that  the  play 
of  their  voices  and  laughter  was  pleasant  to  hear. 
The  girls  wore  white,  and  there  was  enough  light  from 
an  electric  bulb  at  some  distance  down  the  street 
to  show  their  shifting  outlines  and  the  oval  of  their 
faces.  The  two  men  had  placed  themselves  on  the 
steps.  They  were  all  very  near  to  one  another  with- 
out seeming  conscious  of  it. 

2  II 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"Go  on,  Hild,"  said  the  other  girl,  as  a  train, 
which  had  shattered  the  quiet  of  the  village,  receded, 
and  conversation  was  again  possible.  "What  did 
he  say  then?" 

"He  said  that  if  I  got  up  at  daybreak  and  did 
nothing  but  practise  till  dusk  for  several  years  I 
might  perhaps  in  time  get  some  idea  of  the  rudiments 
of  piano-playing;  that,  of  course,  the  violin  was  for- 
ever beyond  my  powers;  that  I  was  like  all  American 
girls — a  silly,  prattling  creature,  with  no  idea  of  the 
seriousness  of  art;  that  'you  are  a — what  you  say- 
goose,  Miss  Emery,  but  I  will  teach  you,  oh  yes,  I 
will  teach  you.  I  shall  be  very  patient,  I  shall ' '  —the 
girl  spread  out  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  long-suffering 
earnestness — "'I  shall  be  brave!  You  will  come  at 
ten  to-morrow,  and  we  will  work  on  the  fingers.' ' 

Three  ready  laughs  came  at  her  pause,  but  the 
man  who  sat  below  her,  his  sleeve  touching  her  white 
shoe,  did  not  laugh. 

"I  don't  like  it,  Hild,"  he  said.  "The  man's  a 
cad  and  a  foreigner.  Why,  he  isn't  even  clean. 
And  he's  got  a  red  face." 

The  girl  who  was  not  Hild  spoke  sharply  back: 

"Well,  what  has  his  red  face  got  to  do  with  Hild? 
It  doesn't  prevent  his  being  a  good  music-teacher, 
does  it?  If  he  were  good-looking  and  civilized  you 
might  have  reason  to  object." 

"He  wouldn't  have  any  reason  to  object  then, 
Chloe,"  put  in  Hild. 

"Well,  there  would  be  some  sense  in  it.     As  it  is, 

12 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

there  isn't  a  bit.  Our  music-teacher  at  school  looks 
as  if  he  would  explode,  but  he  makes  us  learn  our 
scales.  I  tell  you,  you  don't  get  much  chance  for 
really  good  instruction  in  this  town.  I  think  Mrs. 
Emery  is  very  sensible.  The  truth  is,  you  can't 
forgive  little  Johnny  for  doing  you  out  of  Miss 
Massam's  front  room,  Simeon." 

"Bosh!" 

"Bosh  your  grandmother!  What  do  you  think, 
Alec?" 

"The  fact  is,  I  don't  like  the  man  myself,"  said 
Alec  Masterman.  "He's  a  cad,  as  Sim  says.  You 
girls  don't  understand  what  that  means,  but  it  means 
a  lot,  I  can  tell  you  that!" 

As  Alec  was  in  the  Harvard  law  school,  after  a 
four  years'  course  in  the  university,  his  opinion  was 
something  to  fall  with  weight  into  the  discussion. 
Hild,  who  was  just  seventeen,  had  not  left  Beverly 
since  her  mother  had  settled  there  ten  years  before, 
except  for  two  notable  occasions  when  she  had  gone 
for  a  few  days  to  Boston.  Chloe  Carson  had  traveled 
a  little  with  her  father,  and  she  was  now  in  a  boarding- 
school  near  New  York,  which  gave  her  considerable 
prestige.  Simeon  Pierce  had  been  graduated  by  a 
local  university  and  was  now  studying  law  in  Senator 
Carson's  office.  So  Alec  was,  to  the  small  party,  the 
voice  of  the  world. 

"I  don't  care,  he  can  play  the  violin,"  said  Chloe. 
"Besides,  Hild  isn't  thinking  of  getting  engaged  to 
him — are  you,  Hild?" 

13 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

All  the  four  voices  blended  in  laughter  at  that, 
and  Hild  asked  some  one  to  tell  her  whether  French- 
German  musicians  were  generally  supposed  to  be 
fond  of  "leetle  geese."  As  she  spoke  a  surging  of 
cool  wind  lifted  her  hair  and  they  heard  a  sound  of 
thunder. 

"It's  going  to  rain,"  said  Simeon,  quickly. 

"Oh,"  said  Chloe,  looking  down  at  her  thin  dress, 
"I  must  go.  Hild,  I'll  come  for  you  in  the  morning 
at  ten  unless  it's  pouring.  Simeon  won't  ask  papa 
for  the  day  off;  but  you'll  be  sure  to  meet  us  at  the 
rocks,  won't  you,  Simeon?"  she  asked,  turning  to 
him.  "Hild,  you  can  tell  your  mother  that  Lizzie 
has  promised  to  come,  so  that  will  be  plenty  of 
chaperon.  Just  as  if  we  were  not  old  enough  to  go 
where  we  like,  anyhow!" 

"I'll  be  sure  to  be  there  by  the  four-thirty  train 
and  drive  home  with  you,"  said  Simeon.  "Alec  '11 
look  after  you,  all  right." 

Alec  had  risen  when  Chloe  did,  and  no  one  asked 
him  to  stay.  The  two  went  over  the  lawn  to  the 
path  that  led  to  the  street.  Simeon  and  Hild  fol- 
lowed as  far  as  the  gate,  but  lingered  there  to  watch 
them  out  of  sight. 

"Alec  has  improved  ever  so  much,"  she  said. 

"So  has  Chloe  in  looks.  But  she  has  got  to  be 
awfully  vain." 

"Simeon,  she  isn't.  And  she  is  so  pretty.  I  like 
those  ribbon  bands  she  wears  in  her  hair." 

"I  don't.     I  like  simple  hair  like  yours." 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"I  wish  I  could  go  away,"  said  Hild.  "Oh,  I  do 
wish  I  could!" 

"Let's  sit  down  here  till  it  begins  to  rain,"  said 
Simeon,  as  they  reached  the  steps. 

The  trees  had  already  begun  their  restless  play,  and 
above  them  great  masses  of  black  were  gathering 
together.  Hild  leaned  her  head  against  a  post  of  the 
veranda.  Sometimes  when  the  big  [tree  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  lawn  bent  in  the  rising  wind  the  light  from 
the  street  flung  all  its  brightness  on  her.  Simeon 
watched  for  these  moments.  He  was  a  short  man, 
powerfully  built,  with  a  bull-like  neck  and  catlike 
eyes,  handsome  in  a  tense,  disturbing  way.  Hild  had 
known  him  for  more  than  a  year,  and  had  seen  him 
with  increasing  frequency  during  this  spring  and 
summer.  He  was  so  distinctly  a  man  that  his  pref- 
erence for  her  flattered  and  excited  her.  She  found 
that  she  always  looked  for  him,  and  that  if  he  delayed 
his  coming  she  grew  impatient  and  miserable.  She 
had  almost  dreaded  Chloe's  return  in  June  for  fear 
he  would  like  her  friend  better  than  herself;  yet  she 
had  also  looked  forward  to  it,  for  Chloe  would  be  sure 
to  know  just  how  much  he  meant  by  the  things  he 
said. 

"You're  going  with  Chloe  to-morrow,  aren't  you, 
Hild?" 

There  was  special  eagerness  in  the  question.  She 
answered,  carelessly: 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Then  you  are  not  going  to  take  a  lesson?" 

15 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"I  don't  see  why  you  care  if  I  do." 

"I  do  care." 

He  leaned  toward  her  and  took  a  fold  of  her  dress 
in  his  hand.  She  saw  him  do  it,  and  her  heart  gave 
excited  leaps,  while  her  mind  sat  serenely  looking  on. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  why.  Mercy,  how  the  wind  is 
blowing!" 

The  great  tree  swept  back,  and  he  could  see  her 
whole  figure — the  bare  brown  arms,  the  hands 
clasped  on  her  knees,  the  free  throat,  brown  too, 
and  the  clear  line  of  her  chin.  The  face  above  he 
never  for  a  moment  forgot.  Hild  was  a  pretty  girl, 
with  a  healthy  color  and  uncommon  brown  eyes, 
which  had  a  trick  of  meeting  yours  with  a  sudden 
and  startling  completeness,  but  to  Simeon's  genius 
for  loving  she  was  all  beautiful. 

"Do  you  mean  you  really  don't  see  why?"  he 
asked  her,  his  hand  creeping  nearer  to  hers. 

The  mesmerism  of  the  moment  held  her  speech- 
less. She  looked  down  and  watched  his  ringers 
master  hers.  But  when  she  felt  how  his  palm  burned 
her  flesh  she  sprang  upright,  shaking  his  arm  from 
her  knee. 

"It's  cold  and  it  is  beginning  to  rain,"  she  said. 
"We  must  go  in."  And,  without  waiting  for  him, 
she  crossed  the  veranda  and  entered  the  house. 

There  were  no  lights,  and  her  ringers  traveled 
over  the  mantel  in  vain  to  find  the  matches.  Either 
the  fingers  were  unusually  awkward  or  the  matches 
were  not  there.  As  she  hunted,  Simeon  came  in. 

16 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"Let  me  help  you,"  he  said;  and  she  heard  only 
the  quiver  in  his  words. 

The  wind  shut  the  door  with  a  sharp  slam.  Out- 
side, the  storm  raised  a  thousand  wild  voices  along 
the  village  street.  When  the  two  groping  hands 
met,  Simeon  Pierce  put  out  his  arms  and  seized  her, 
sweeping  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  once  on  her  soft 
cheek,  and  while  the  kiss  burned  and  burned  till  it 
reached  and  seared  the  girl's  soul  a  door  opened  into 
the  hall  and  Mrs.  Emery's  tall  figure  was  outlined 
against  the  dim  light  which  had  been  set  there. 

"Hild  —  Hild  —  are  you  there?  What  are  you 
doing?" 

"WVve  just  come  in,  mama.  Simeon  Pierce  is 
here.  We  were  hunting  for  the  matches." 

"Well,  there  they  are."  Mrs.  Emery  found  them 
and  lighted  the  lamp  that  stood  on  a  low  table. 
She  looked  at  the  two  with  eyes  which  asked  much 
and  perceived  nothing. 

Hild  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began  to  turn  over 
the  music  on  the  rack.  There  was  nothing  there 
of  much  value — several  pretty-pretty  love  songs, 
a  waltz  or  two,  a  book  of  college  songs,  and  numbers 
of  coon  songs  all  opened  one  on  another,  and  the 
corner  of  the  cover  of  each  bearing  in  a  flourishing 
scrawl — "Hild  Emery" — and  a  date. 

Her  mother  left  them  to  take  off  her  hat  and 
gloves  in  the^bedroom  above  and  Hild  began  to  sing. 
She  was  still  singing  in  a  full  voice  a  popular  air  when 
her  mother  came  back.  The  lady  spoke  once  or 

17 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

twice  to  Simeon,  and  he  answered  her  with  respect; 
but  his  ears  were  all  for  Hild's  music,  and  at  last 
Mrs.  Emery  sat  down  to  listen,  too.  The  girl 
finished  one  song  and  began  another  like  it.  The 
rain  was  beating  on  the  roof  now  in  a  steady  down- 
pour, and  the  wind  was  quieter. 

Suddenly  across  the  gentle  atmosphere  of  the 
lamp-lighted  room  there  spread  a  shock.  The  door 
bounded  open,  and  in  the  space  stood  Miss  Massam's 
boarder,  his  long  hair  a  prey  to  violent  fingers,  his 
face  brilliant  with  roused  blood,  his  eyes  rolling 
underneath  drawn  brows.  He  wore  no  collar,  and 
in  lieu  of  a  collar-button  the  neck  of  his  shirt  was 
fastened  with  a  shoe-string.  He  looked  straight  at 
Hild,  who  had  turned  on  her  stool  in  amazement 
and  was  facing  him.  He  raised  a  dramatic  fore- 
finger, and,  pointing  it  at  her,  he  said,  as  if  the  word 
were  shot  from  him  by  some  force  within,  "Stop!" 

No  one  appeared  to  think  there  was  any  answer  to 
be  made,  so  in  a  moment  he  continued: 

"I  say  stop!  Is  it  to  drive  me  mad  you  wish? 
I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  driven  to  mad  that  way!" 

He  strode  across  the  small  room  and,  tearing  the 
music  from  the  rack,  trod  on  it. 

"So!"  he  ejaculated.  "I,  an  artist,  make  small 
your  damn  stuff,  so!" 

He  had  been  too  quick  for  Simeon,  but  now  two 
strides  brought  the  men  face  to  face.  Gradually,  as 
he  looked,  Jean  appeared  to  swell,  his  neck  bulging, 
his  eyes  starting.  "Yah — you!  I  understand  now. 

18 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

You  like  that — that  rot?"  He  pointed  to  the  fallen 
sheets.  "She  sings  to  you,  does  she?  So  she  sings 
rot.  To-morrow  at  ten  she  plays  to  me,  and  she  will 
play  no  rot.  Till  she  can  hear  with  those  ears  she 
shall  play — nothing,  nothing,  I  tell  you — but  what 
I  say.  You  understand?" 

Mrs.  Emery  stepped  forward.  "We  quite  under- 
stand, Mr.  Kontze.  Please  don't  make  us  all  un- 
comfortable. Hild  is  only  too  eager  to  learn." 

"Ah,  you  are  a  sensible  woman.  You  must  not 
let  her  do  such  things.  It  is  sin — crime.  I  say  it. 
She  has  the  music  here,  in  her  soul."  He  put  a 
hand  to  his  untidy  chest.  "You  must  keep  her 
ears  clean."  He  finished  so  earnestly  that  no  one 
laughed. 

Simeon  had  drawn  back,  and,  with  the  briefest  of 
good  nights,  he  made  his  rude  way  out. 

"He  is  gone — that  is  right!"  said  Kontze.  "I 
will  go,  too,"  he  added,  as  if  the  idea  had  just  occurred 
to  him.  He  gave  the  debris  on  the  floor  a  vicious 
grind  with  his  heel  and  then  he  looked  at  Hild. 
"At  ten.  Make  your  ears  clean!"  he  commanded. 
"And  sing  no  more — to  him!"  The  door  slammed, 
and  Hild  and  her  mother  were  left  alone. 

"Well,  I  never!"  ejaculated  the  girl.  "How  hor- 
rid to  have  such  a  wildcat  next  door.  I  don't  think 
I'll  take  any  more  lessons,  mama." 

"That  would  be  a  pity,  Hild.  You  know  very 
well  how  I  feel  in  not  being  able  to  give  you  advan- 
tages. It  is  dreadful  to  me  to  think  you  will  know 

19 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

nothing  a  lady  ought  to  know.  Mr.  Kontze  can 
teach  you  both  French  and  German,  as  well  as 
music.  If  your  uncle  Errison  ever  asks  you  to 
Boston  again — who  knows!" 

"I  don't  care.  Everybody  says  you  get  a  fine 
education  in  the  high  school  here." 

"Plenty  of  Greek  and  Latin,  but  no  accomplish- 
ments. All  very  well  if  you  mean  to  marry  a 
farmer.  Any  one  would  suppose  I  had  had  enough 
disappointment  without  that." 

Hild  cast  a  quick  glance  upon  her  mother's  face. 
It  was  a  handsome  face,  but  it  was  slowly  falling  into 
lines  of  heavy  discontent  that  already  gave  warning 
of  an  unpleasant  old  age.  Hild,  having  been  her 
mother's  only  companion  for  ten  years,  had  learned  to 
allow  for  moods  and  humor  them,  and  to  lighten,  un- 
consciously enough,  for  she  was  a  good  girl,  an 
authority  which  was  too  shifting  and  inconsistent  to 
be  respected. 

"I'm  never  going  to  get  married,"  said  Hild, 
stooping  to  pick  up  and  tidy  the  music  sheets. 

"And  a  very  good  thing  if  you  don't.  Anyway, 
you're  too  young  to  think  of  such  things,  and  I  hope 
you'll  put  them  out  of  your  head.  What  made 
Chloe  go  home  and  leave  you  alone  with  Simeon 
Pierce?" 

"We  saw  that  it  was  going  to  storm.  Alec 
Masterman  was  with  her." 

"He  seems  very  devoted.  I  wonder  if  he  is  in 
love  with  her?" 

20 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Hild  did  not  answer. 

"Anyway,"  said  Mrs.  Emery,  "I  don't  like 
Simeon  coming  here  so  often." 

"Why  not?"  The  girl's  back  stiffened,  and  her 
whole  young  spirit  rushed  to  rebellion. 

"Because  he  isn't  in  your  class,  Hild,  and  he  might 
learn  to  care  for  you." 

Hild  could  not  say  what  she  felt,  for  it  would  not 
have  sounded  respectful,  and  she  was  never  audibly 
disrespectful  to  her  mother.  She  kept  a  defiant 
silence.  Her  mother  went  on,  not  perceiving  that  for 
every  word  she  spoke  a  new  shield  of  antagonism 
sprang  up  between  her  thought  and  the  mind  of  her 
child. 

"His  mother  was  a  dressmaker  as  a  girl.  She 
helped  with  my  wedding  things,  I  well  remember. 
His  father  was  a  doctor,  but  his  father's  father — no 
one  knows!  It  is  dreadful  enough  for  me  to  have 
to  live  here,  as  you  know,  but  if  I  am  to  see  my 
daughter  sink  to  the  level  of  a  mere  uninformed 
country-girl  I  may  as  well  die  at  once." 

Hild  piled  the  music  together  with  a  motion  of  her 
pretty  hands  and  began  to  close  the  piano  for  the 
night.  Her  back  was  turned  toward  her  mother, 
and  she  did  not  speak.  She  knew  perfectly  surely 
that  she  was  listening  to  mere  words,  and  that  her 
mother  would  not  deny  her  pleasure  except  mo- 
mentarily; that  the  mood  would  pass;  and  that  if 
Hild  had  taken  her  literally,  and  isolated  herself  by 
an  assumed  social  superiority,  her  mother  would 

21 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

have  been  the  first  to  resent  the  consequent 
neglect.  There  was  no  use  in  saying  this,  however, 
so  she  closed  the  piano  in  silence.  Meanwhile 
she  considered.  She  knew  that  in  her  present 
mood  her  mother  would  veto  the  proposed  picnic 
arranged  for  to-morrow;  and,  although  she  could 
no  doubt  be  brought  to  change  her  mind,  these 
encounters  were  repugnant  to  Hild.  In  her 
arrogance  she  despised  her  mother's  indecision  and 
ineffectiveness.  Even  though  she  could  nearly 
always  evade  her  mother's  authority,  in  another 
sense  she  was  her  bond  slave.  To  avoid  reproaches 
and  hours  of  nagging  misery  to  which  her  mother 
sometimes  subjected  her  she  would  have  gone  to  any 
lengths. 

Hild  saw  now  that  among  all  her  mother's 
remarks  there  was  only  one  fixed  idea  to  which  she 
must  submit.  She  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  forego 
her  lessons  with  Mr.  Kontze.  She  did  not  know 
whether  she  was  pleased  or  sorry.  He  was  some- 
thing new  in  her  life,  and  she  was  at  the  age  when 
anything  new  has  its  lure.  More  than  this,  she 
had  harbored  among  other  dreams  the  ambition  of 
becoming  a  great  singer  and  seeing  worlds  at  her 
feet.  There  was  really  no  harm  at  all  in  trying. 
Not  that  she  would  give  up  for  a  moment  the  fun 
of  to-morrow  for  the  sake  of  a  lesson.  She  was 
much  too  fascinated  by  her  curiosity  as  to  what  more 
Simeon  would  have  to  say  to  be  willing  to  miss  the 
day's  outing.  She  hated  to  remember  that  he  had 

22 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

kissed  her,  but  a  confession  of  Chloe's  the  night 
before,  spent  together,  made  this  easier  to  bear. 
She  was  very  glad  he  had  not  kissed  her  mouth. 
That  would  have  been  horrid,  she  thought.  If  she 
ever  got  engaged  she  meant  to  stipulate  that  the 
privileges  of  a  lover  should  not  include  kissing  her 
on  the  mouth. 

"Well,  we'd  better  go  to  bed.  I've  a  woman 
coming  to  help  bake  to-morrow.  What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"There  was  something  said  about  a  picnic,  but 
it's  raining  awfully  hard  now,  and  I  guess  it  won't 
be  nice  enough  to  go.  Do  you  want  me?" 

"No;   you  are  better  away." 

"I'll  stay  and  help  if  you  want  me." 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't.  No  need  for  you  to 
learn  how  to  cook  and  scrub.  I  hope  you'll  have 
servants  to  do  all  that  for  you." 

It  was  the  rule  in  Beverly  that  the  lady  of  the 
house  should  "do  her  own  work."  Whether  it  was 
true,  as  the  ladies  said,  that  there  was  not  a  servant 
to  be  had,  or  whether  Hild's  remark  that  no  one 
who  could  afford  to  keep  a  servant  would  dream  of 
living  in  Beverly  was  more  to  the  point,  is  doubtful. 
The  ladies  managed  it  all  with  varying  skill  and  good 
humor,  and  got  on  with  as  little  nerve  strain  as  if 
they  had  had  twenty  maids  apiece.  Supper  at  six 
and  dinner  at  twelve-thirty  simplified  matters  for 
them;  and,  as  no  one  expected  much  from  them,  and 
as  Beverly  did  not  offer  a  great  deal  in  the  way  of 

23 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

distraction,  perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  they  should 
have  plenty  to  do.  But  Mrs.  Emery  had  never 
ceased  to  consider  her  light  housework  an  imposi- 
tion of  the  most  humiliating  kind,  and  she  would 
never  let  Hild  help  her  except  in  the  lightest  ways. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed,"  said  Hild. 

They  straightened  the  room,  locked  the  doors  and 
windows,  which  no  one  else  ever  thought  of  doing, 
and  Mrs.  Emery  went  into  the  kitchen  to  arrange 
things  for  her  morning's  work,  while  Hild  went  to 
her  own  room.  A  door  opened  between  their  two 
bedrooms,  and  while  they  undressed  they  could  talk 
back  and  forth.  Sometimes  this  was  irksome  to 
Hild,  for  she  had  the  sacred,  absorbing  thoughts  of 
youth,  and  her  mother's  words  were  wont  to  fall  like 
a  rough  hand  among  breakable  treasures. 

To-night  silence  fell  sooner  than  usual.  Hild 
was  never  supposed  to  close  her  door,  and  she  lay 
listening  to  her  mother's  breathing  and  the  night- 
heightened  sounds  beyond  her  open  window.  The 
rain  had  stopped.  She  heard  the  town  clock  strike 
eleven,  rolling  the  strokes  like  cannon-balls  up  the 
street.  When  the  last  echo  grew  imperceptible  she 
was  conscious  of  the  continuing  of  that  which  it  had 
drowned — the  distant  music  of  a  violin.  Sometimes 
she  lost  it,  for  the  melody  was  rendered  softly  in  the 
room  below;  but  she  could  hear  that  it  was  a 
pleading,  plaintive  air,  like  the  thoughts  of  a  lonely 
soul.  It  troubled  and  perplexed  her,  and  only  when 
it  ceased  was  she  able  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  III 

JEAN  KONTZE  sat  at  his  window  looking  out 
over  the  hazy  September  shadows.  He  had 
leaned  both  arms  on  the  window-sill  and  rested  his 
chin  on  them,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  break 
in  the  trees  through  which  he  could  see  the  railroad 
track.  The  villainous  noise  of  the  frequent  trains 
was  one  of  his  trials,  and  daily  trials  were  not  few, 
for  he  had  a  considerable  number  of  pupils  both  for 
music  and  for  French,  and  they  were  all,  to  his  mind, 
inflictions.  He  had  only  just  closed  the  door  upon  a 
frightened  boy  whom  he  had  annihilated  to  the 
limits  of  his  mongrel  wit,  and  after  raging  about  the 
room  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  sunk  down  here 
to  think  the  situation  out. 

It  was  intolerable — this  was  the  obvious  conclu- 
sion. But,  then,  so  were  most  things,  and  things 
could,  unfortunately,  go  on  being  intolerable  for 
an  indefinite  time.  They  could  even  become  less 
tolerable.  This  the  life  of  his  French  mother  had 
taught  him.  He  recalled  her  as  a  gifted  creature,  so 
artistic  that  life  was  nearly  all  pain  to  her,  wedded, 
only  God  knew  how  or  why,  to  a  German  musician 
who  was  talented  in  proportion  to  his  stupidity  in 
other  respects.  She  had  cooked  and  washed  and 

25 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

slaved,  and  kept  them  comfortable  at  the  expense  of 
her  health  and  beauty,  and  he  could  never  remember 
that  any  one  had  ever  thanked  her  or  even  been  very 
sorry  when  she  died.  His  father  had  promptly 
married  again;  and  his  stepmother  had  worked  and 
washed  and  sewed,  too,  even  better  than  her  pre- 
decessor, but  she  had  been  possessed  of  a  temper 
which  had  driven  Jean  at  nineteen  to  Paris  to  shift 
for  himself.  There  he  had  managed  to  earn  a  little 
money  by  playing  in  cafes  and  music-halls,  and 
there  he  had  met  a  well-to-do  restaurant  proprietor 
who  had  gone  to  America  and  had  made  a  compe- 
tence in  a  few  years.  This  man  had  an  ear  for  music 
and  detected  Jean's  talent,  and  had  urged  him  to  go 
to  the  states;  had  even  given  him  letters  to  two  or 
three  men  in  his  line  in  New  York.  So  at  twenty- 
five  Jean  had  sailed,  third-class  passenger,  for  New 
York.  Thence,  with  a  friend,  he  had  drifted  to 
Boston,  where  he  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  ill. 
Meanwhile  he  had  saved  a  little  money,  for  he  had 
a  strain  of  shrewdness  in  his  motley  composition 
which  made  it  a  pleasure  to  him  to  lay  by  his  earn- 
ings. As  he  was  in  need  of  a  change  and  country  air, 
his  landlady  suggested  Beverly  to  him,  having  been 
brought  up  there  herself.  His  money  was  nearly 
gone  and  he  had  lost  his  place  in  a  theater  orches- 
tra, so  he  took  her  suggestion,  and  now  he  was 
saving  again  for  a  larger  venture  elsewhere. 

Living,  as  he  could  live,  on  almost  nothing  at  all, 
he  had  already  enough  to  go  back  to  Boston  and 

26 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

stay  a  few  days  until  he  could  get  work,  but  he  was 
not  sure  he  wanted  to.  Miss  Massam  was  nice  to 
him,  and  just  lately  he  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  time 
talking  to  Mrs.  Emery,  who  had  given  him  a  great 
deal  of  sympathy.  He  had  come  to  feel  that  he 
could  go  across  the  hall  to  her  rooms  whenever  he 
liked.  Hild  sometimes  came  in  while  he  was  there 
and  accompanied  him  on  the  piano  while  he  played; 
and,  though  he  lost  his  temper  with  her  rendering  of 
the  music,  and  abused  her  candidly  and  thoroughly 
when  she  did  not  follow  him  with  ease,  he  enjoyed 
himself  none  the  less.  He  was  interested  in  Hild's 
lessons,  moreover.  He  was  teaching  her  French  as 
well  as  music,  and  found  her  a  quick  pupil  at  both. 
He  liked  to  talk  to  her,  too,  for  she  could  listen  for- 
ever if  he  told  her  of  his  wanderings — of  Paris,  gay 
and  bad;  of  Munich,  sordid  and  spiritual;  of  Italy, 
warm  and  rich;  of  England,  which  he  hated  with  a 
deadly  hatred.  It  was  long  since  he  had  had  women 
about  him.  Mrs.  Emery  and  Miss  Massam  had 
mended  his  clothes  between  them  and  bought  him 
some  linen,  and  he  managed  to  keep  a  little  more 
tidy  with  their  help.  Women  were,  he  meditated, 
distinctly  useful  to  talk  to,  scold,  and  to  mend  one's 
clothes;  to  cook  one's  meals,  too.  He  was  not  fond 
of  cooking.  He  had  burnt  his  fingers  a  few  days 
before,  and  Mrs.  Emery  and  Miss  Massam  had  in- 
vited him  to  supper  on  the  two  days  following.  He 
had  been  unutterably  wretched,  for  his  finger  was  too 
painful  to  allow  him  to  hold  his  bow,  but  he  had 
3  27 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

enjoyed  being  waited  on  and  having  good  things  to 
eat.  Once,  when  he  had  been  stretched  out  on  Mrs. 
Emery's  comfortable  sofa,  Hild  had  brought  him  a 
cup  of  coffee,  and  he  had  felt  more  pleased  than  even 
the  excellent  coffee  could  explain.  Now,  to-night, 
suppose  there  were  a  woman  at  hand  who  belonged 
there  and  could  not  say  it  was  supper-time  and  she 
must  go!  He  could  tell  her  all  about  those  villainous 
pupils  of  his  while  she  was  getting  his  evening  meal, 
and  when  it  was  all  ready  he  would  only  have  to 
go  and  sit  down,  and  she  would  bring  him  all  he 
wanted;  and  if  it  wasn't  right,  why,  she  would  have 
to  make  it  right.  Of  course  she  would  have  to  under- 
stand cooking  and  sewing,  but  all  these  American 
women  seemed  capable.  Only  he  hoped  there 
wouldn't  be  babies — great  heavens!  What  a  brain- 
racking  thought! 

He  started  up,  almost  as  terrified  as  if  the  offend- 
ing child  were  there  in  person.  It  took  him  a  mo- 
ment to  realize  that  his  thoughts  had  not  brought 
him  any  nearer  to  their  consummation,  that  the 
cries  his  memory  of  certain  train  journeys  presented 
to  his  auditory  nerve  were  yet  mercifully  absent 
from  the  reality. 

Anyway,  it  was  a  woman's  business  to  keep  babies 
out  of  the  way  if  she  did  have  them.  He  had  vivid 
recollections  of  having  been  kept  out  of  the  way 
himself  when  he  was  a  child;  and,  as  the  result  of 
failure  in  this  respect  had  been  painful  to  him  as 
well  as  to  his  mother,  he  had  soon  learned  to  manage 

28 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

the  matter  himself.  He  forgot  his  momentary  hor- 
ror and  reverted  to  a  pleasanter  train  of  thought. 

The  deepening  shadows  warned  him  that  the  hour 
had  come  for  food.  He  meant  to  wander  across  the 
hall  later,  and  he  could  hear  Miss  Massam  moving 
about  in  her  kitchen,  so  he  knew  that  Beverly's 
supper-hour  had  come.  He  got  up  and  went  to  a 
table  where  a  chafing-dish,  a  patent  coffee  pot, 
several  dirty  spoons  and  plates,  and  a  cup  and  saucer 
stood,  with  a  few  very  simple  cooking-utensils.  ,He 
opened  a  cupboard  abwe  and  took  out  two  eggs,  a 
plate  of  cold  cabbage,  the  remains  of  a  boiled 
potato,  and  some  bread.  Also  out  of  an  old  tobacco 
can  he  extracted  a  little  ground  coffee,  not  unmixed,  I 
fear,  with  "Yale  Blend."  These  commodities  he 
began  to  manipulate  with  a  great  deal  of  dex- 
terity. 

While  he  was  busy  with  them  a  door  opened  that 
led  to  Miss  Massam's  parlor,  and  a  man  entered. 
Jean  looked  at  him;  then  he  took  another  egg  from 
his  larder  and  poked  about  in  the  corners  as  if  in 
search  of  something  further.  At  last  he  said  to  the 
new-comer,  "You  go  and  ask  Miss  Massam  for  more 
potato,  yes  ?"  When  the  man  returned  with  one  he 
cut  it  and  added  it  to  the  dish  he  was  preparing.  No 
further  word  was  exchanged  until  the  two  men  faced 
each  other  over  scrambled  eggs,  served  in  the  frying- 
pan,  and  brown  potatoes,  scooped  into  the  cover  of 
a  dish  the  bottom  of  which  had  long  since  been 
broken.  There  was  steaming  coffee,  which  had  an 

29 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

excellent  flavor,  though  they  had  to  take  turns  with 
the  cup,  and  there  was  plenty  of  toasted  bread. 

Mert  Massam  was  the  disreputable  brother  of  five 
most  respectable  sisters,  and  the  disowned  son  of 
parents  whom  he  had  wounded  and  humiliated  to 
the  last  day  of  their  lives.  During  his  boyhood 
he  had  treated  school  with  utter  contempt,  which 
no  amount  of  flogging  or  argument  could  alter. 
He  liked  to  stand  on  a  street  corner  and  watch  the 
people  with  shrewd  and  quizzical  eyes,  his  mouth 
screwed  ready  for  a  whistle,  and  a  few  pennies 
jingling  pleasantly  in  his  pocket.  The  shabbier  his 
clothes  were  the  better  pleased  he  seemed  to  be. 
Loafers  and  rogues  liked  to  teach  him  bad  words, 
so  that  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the  age  when 
most  boys  have  arrived  at  some  sort  of  usefulness 
his  accomplishments  consisted  in  a  great  aptitude  in 
spitting  at  a  target,  a  weird  gift  of  whistling,  and  a 
vocabulary  of  oaths  calculated  to  rout  a  regiment. 
After  one  or  two  experiences  of  the  effects  of  hard 
drinking  he  was  never  seen  under  the  influence  of 
alcohol;  and  he  was  never  in  possession  of  enough 
money  at  a  time  for  gambling,  even  if  he  had  ever 
shown  a  disposition  to  that  kind  of  viciousness.  As 
the  years  went  on  and  he  grew  older  he  became  a 
Beverly  landmark,  and  filled  a  humble  but  definite 
place  in  the  world,  to  his  own  satisfaction  and  the 
detriment  of  no  one.  He  made  a  few  pennies  by  the 
thousand  and  one  odd  jobs  that  small  boys  usually 
monopolize — the  distributing  of  hand-bills,  deliver- 

30 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

ing  papers,  sometimes,  on  the  occasions  of  ladies' 
"At  Homes,"  taking  the  precious  cards  from  house 
to  house,  all  of  which  he  carried  out  with  pains- 
taking conscientiousness.  Beverly  came  to  with- 
draw the  reproach  of  half-wittedness  which  it  had 
at  one  time  been  inclined  to  bestow  upon  him.  One 
reason  for  this  may  have  been  that  he  knew  how 
to  turn  a  phrase  so  that  it  fastened  to  the  person  it 
was  intended  for,  like  the  tooth  of  a  bulldog,  and  his 
speeches  had  a  way  of  being  repeated  and  laughed  at 
over  most  Beverly  supper-tables.  It  was  no  small 
advantage  to  be  in  Mert  Massam's  good  graces. 

Although  Jean  had  not  taken  in  the  importance 
of  winning  over  this  Beverlyite  to  his  standard,  he 
had  won  him  in  a  prompt  and  masterly  fashion,  and 
the  two  had  become  firm  friends.  Jean  had  dis- 
covered that  Mert,  after  once  hearing  him  play  a 
sonata  of  Tchaikovsky's,  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting 
his  sister  nearly  every  day,  sitting  in  a  corner  of  her 
parlor  until  he  had  heard  Jean  at  his  work,  and  then 
going  away  whistling  the  same  air  which  Jean  had 
played  with  no  mean  imitation  of  the  sound  of  a 
violin.  One  evening  Jean  had  opened  the  door  and 
invited  him  to  come  in  and  had  offered  the  shabby 
audience  the  best  his  genius  could  produce.  It  would 
have  made  a  curious  picture  had  any  one  with  seeing 
eyes  and  dexterous  hand  been  there  to  interpret 
it.  The  untidy  and  neglected  room,  the  figure  of 
the  ne'er-do-well  shabbily  bunched  into  a  chair,  his 
raised  face  harrowed  by  weather  and  idleness  to  a 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

leathery  mass  wasting  over  a  shrinking  soul,  his 
mouth  puckered  for  whistling,  and  his  eyes  bright  with 
a  spirit  roused  from  a  forgotten  grave;  in  another 
corner  the  musician,  translated  from  his  meager 
human  proportions  into  the  interpreter  of  a  loveli- 
ness so  transcendent  that  it  glorified  its  medium. 
So  much  that  was  ugly  and  sordid  dominated  by  what 
was  utterly  spiritual  and  divine! 

Since  then  the  scene  had  been  repeated  often. 
Mert  would  listen  as  long  as  Jean  would  play,  and 
he  never  spoiled  his  rapt  listening  by  any  clumsy 
word  of  praise.  Once,  as  an  experiment,  Jean  played 
a  mean  little  popular  air  that  had  lately  passed  the 
stage  of  novelty  and  hadn't  yet  become  the  prey  of 
hand-organs.  He  played  it  in  the  spirit  of  a  tittering 
young  girl,  with  a  dash  and  slam  and  a  wailing 
sentimentality.  Mert  listened  as  usual  to  the  end. 
When  the  final  bar  was  played  he  rose  to  go. 

"You  do  not  like  him?"  asked  Jean. 

"Don't  like  bein'  made  a  damn  fool  of,"  answered 
the  audience,  from  the  door.  "Damn  fool  enough, 
anyhow." 

It  took  persuasion  and  tact  to  soothe  him  and 
three  airs  from  Handel  and  two  from  Bach  before 
he  was  again  good-humored.  It  was  doubtful  if  he 
knew  the  difference  in  the  compositions,  but  he 
well  knew  the  difference  in  Jean's  rendering  of 
them. 

This  was  why  Jean  shared  his  scrambled  eggs  and 
brown  potatoes  so  unquestioningly  on  this  September 

32 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

evening.     Over   the   coffee   and   a   cigarette   Mert 
waxed  talkative. 

"Know  Sim  Pierce?"  he  asked. 

"The  one  who  makes  trouble  with  my  pupils? 
He  is  a — what  you  say — he  meddles.  He  is  no  good. 
Better  to  shovel  coal  in  his  ears  than  to  play  music 
to  him." 

Miss  Massam  had  replenished  her  coal  celler  the 
day  before,  and  Jean  had  resorted  to  cotton  wool 
and  finally,  as  a  mad  recourse,  to  wild  flight.  Hence 
the  metaphor. 

"American  eagle!"  Simeon's  prominent  and 
slightly  hooked  nose  and  his  bright  eyes  made 
the  description  pertinent.  "Likes  to  grab  and 
swoop,"  added  Mert. 

"So." 

"Had  a  letter  from  Chloe  Carson  to  bring  Hild. 
He  took  it." 

"He?" 

"'Give  me  that,  Mert,'  sez  he.  Til  d'liver  it.' 
Wa'n't  his  bizness.  'Merican  eagle!  Likes  to 
swoop  and  grab!"  Nothing  was  more  displeasing 
to  Mert  than  to  have  his  usefulness  made  light  of. 
He  regarded  his  odd-jobbing  with  the  greatest 
seriousness,  and  required  a  like  respect  from  others. 
Simeon  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin  against 
his  susceptibilities. 

Jean  leaned  in  his  chair,  puffing  at  his  long  pipe 
and  meditating  as  the  smoke  rose.  At  that  moment 
his  German  origin  was  apparent.  There  was  noth- 

33 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

ing  French  about  the  solidity  that  incased  him  at 
certain  moments  of  physical  well-being. 

"Did  you  ever  consider,"  he  slowly  inquired — 
"did  you  ever  consider  the — ah — marriage?" 

Mert  Massam  was  not  accustomed  to  smiling. 
Forced  to  the  attempt,  his  face  broke  into  an  in- 
credible number  of  wrinkles  and  his  lips  slid  back 
to  disclose  an  imperfect  line  of  yellow  teeth. 

"Me?"  He  gloated  over  the  idea  as  something 
too  good  to  be  lightly  dealt  with.  Then  he  said,  in 
imitation  of  a  feminine  voice:  "Mert,  where've  ye 
bin?  Mert,  ye  doggone  fool,  whatcha  doin'  settin' 
round  the  stove?  Go  'n'  bring  in  some  wood. 
Mert,  gi'  me  that  quarter — ye'll  fritter  it  away  on 
tobaccy  or  some  such  foolery.  Nice  kind  o'  man 
I  got;  foolin'  away  yer  time  when  yer  pore  wife's 
slavin'  off  her  fingers  fur  ye !  Where'd  ye  expect  ter 
die  when  yer  go  to?"  Mert  shook  his  head  violently 
twice,  and  with  a  final  expressive  "Me!"  he  returned 
to  his  smoking. 

"So,"  said  Jean,  thoughtfully.  He  had  once  or 
twice  noticed  that  Mert's  opinions  had  a  certain 
shrewdness  worthy  of  respect.  On  the  other  hand, 
his  observation  and  Mert's  did  not  tally  on  this 
subject.  He  contrasted  his  earlier  revere  with  the 
picture  his  disciple  painted,  and  decided  that  each 
might  be  accurate.  It  would  depend  on  the  man. 

"Ah!  I  am  considering  it,"  said  Jean.  "All 
these — it  is  a  trouble."  He  indicated  the  supper- 
table  and  the  room,  though  there  was  nowhere  evi- 

34 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

dence  of  any  one's  having  been  put  to  much  trouble 
in  its  care.  "These  are  also  troubles."  He  handled 
his  coat  and  shirt.  "I  am  considering  it." 

Jean  finished  his  pipe,  and  then  he  played  to 
Mert  while  the  room  grew  dark.  When  he  laid  down 
his  violin  he  went  to  the  bespeckled  shaving-mirror, 
and  in  the  waning  light  of  the  windows  he  arranged 
his  tie.  Mert  took  the  hint.  He  rose,  and. with  a 
very  definite  gesture  of  his  thumb  he  pointed  in  the 
direction  of  Mrs.  Emery's  side  of  the  house. 

"Coin'  over?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  considering  it,"  said  Jean,  gravely. 

"All  right."  Mert  nodded  twice  with  much  de- 
cision. He  moved  to  the  door,  and  there  he  turned 
back  to  say: 

"Don't  forget  'Merican  eagle.  Likes  to  swoop 
an'  grab."  And  with  a  descriptive  clawing  of  his 
lean  fingers  in  the  air  and  a  repetition  of  his  weird 
grin  he  departed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WITH  early  autumn  Chloe  Carson  betook  her 
pretty  spoiled  self  to  her  boarding-school. 
And  Alec  Masterman  the  same  week  returned  to 
Cambridge.  Hild,  of  course,  knew  all  about  the 
exchange  of  society  pins  between  them,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  and  her  own  affair  with  Simeon  Pierce 
was  progressing  fast.  She  still  played  with  the  idea 
of  being  in  love,  not  at  all  prepared  to  succumb  to  her 
first  lover,  but  influenced  each  day  a  little  by  his 
presence  and  the  interests  of  the  situation.  Hild 
was  essentially  one  of  the  girls  who  must  be  loved. 
Like  every  young  spirit,  she  looked  about  for  a 
valuation  to  place  on  her  own  existence.  She  found 
it  in  the  eyes  of  a  man. 

The  high  school  had  reopened,  and  Hild  was 
studying  hard,  hoping  to  graduate  in  June.  She  was 
also  giving  much  time  to  her  music,  and  twice  a 
week  she  had  lessons  in  French.  Mr.  Kontze  was  a 
frequent  visitor  in  their  little  parlor;  and  as  the 
autumn  waned  into  winter  the  situation  grew  difficult, 
for  there  was  no  reconciling  Simeon  and  Kontze,  and 
there  was  only  one  room  in  which  to  receive  them 
both.  Her  mother  liked  the  musician,  and  Hild  was 
pleased  to  see  her  mother  pleased;  and,  though  she 

36 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

had  not  hesitated  to  ridicule  Jean  to  Chloe  once, 
the  ridicule  had  lately  dropped  out  of  her  letters,  and 
she  and  Simeon  had  quarreled  because  she  would 
not  let  him  abuse  her  instructor. 

"He  may  be  absurd  as  a  man,"  she  had  objected, 
"but  he  is  a  splendid  violinist,  and  you  ought  to 
respect  that." 

Simeon  had  waxed  sullen  and  had  walked  at  her 
side — it  was  just  after  school-hours — without  speak- 
ing. Neither  could  she,  angered  at  having  been 
forced  into  a  position  she  disliked  and  from  which 
pride  forbade  her  to  retreat,  think  of  anything  to  say. 
Thejr  had  parted  at  her  gate  with  the  chilliest  civility, 
and  she  had  not  seen  him  for  two  days. 

After  this  troubles  accumulated.  Bad  news  had 
come  from  her  uncle  in  Boston,  to  whom  Mrs.  Emery 
had  always  looked  for  Hild's  chance  in  life.  He  had 
died  quite  suddenly,  leaving  only  enough  money  for 
his  wife  and  daughters  to  live  on  in  a  very  small  way. 
The  enormous  salary  he  had  made  from  his  position 
as  president  of  a  trust  company  had  vanished,  and 
with  it  Hild's  chances  of  a  Boston  season.  It  was 
difficult  to  make  Mrs.  Emery  forget  this  blow  for  a 
moment,  and  life  at  home  was  only  bearable  when 
Jean  Kontze  came  in  to  spend  the  evening.  He  had 
a  way  of  making  Mrs.  Emery  listen  to  a  hash  of 
confidences,  anecdotes,  complaints,  while  he  smoked 
his  long  pipe,  and  then  he  would  call  Hild  to  play, 
and  so  would  pass  the  evening.  His  friendship 
flattered  the  lady,  and  she  was  at  her  best  with  him. 

37 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

They  could  talk,  too,  of  countries  and  wonders  they 
had  both  seen,  and  Hild's  mother  grew  animated 
over  these  conversations  as  Hild  had  never  seen  her 
before.  In  short,  Hild  could  hardly  have  gone  on 
without  Miss  Massam's  boarder. 

Another  grief  was  Chloe's  failure  to  come  home  at 
Thanksgiving.  Senator  and  Mrs.  Carson  were  in 
New  York,  and  Chloe  was  to  join  them  there,  and 
Alec  Masterman  was  to  be  there  for  the  few  days' 
vacation.  Chloe  wrote,  moreover,  of  her  determina- 
tion to  go  to  Europe  in  the  summer  with  a  party  of 
girls  chaperoned  by  two  teachers,  "whatever  papa 
says."  This  was  bitterness  to  Hild,  and  then,  as  a 
final  flick  of  fate's  lash  on  a  skin  already  tender,  came 
Simeon's  proposed  departure  for  New  York.  He  told 
her,  as  a  piece  of  tremendous  good  fortune,  of  his 
chance  to  enter  the  office  of  a  very  well-known  firm 
in  Nassau  Street.  They  were  walking  home  from 
a  church  supper,  and  Hild  was  glad  of  the  dark,  for 
her  eyes  filled  with  wretched  humiliating  tears. 
When  she  could  say  "How  nice!"  the  words  put  out 
his  enthusiasm  with  the  completeness  of  a  switched- 
off  gas-jet.  He  put  his  arm  within  hers  and  said, 
quietly: 

"There's  no  use  in  my  staying  here." 
"Of  course  not!  So,  naturally,  you  are  dying  to  go 
away.  Like  everybody  else.  Mr.  Kontze  is  the 
only  person  I  can  think  of  who  really  likes  Beverly," 
she  added,  sweetly.  "He  says  he  ought  to  go,  but 
he  doesn't  want  to." 

38 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"I'm  going  to  talk  to  your  mother  about  Kontze 
before  I  go,"  he  said,  as  if  he  meant  it. 

"Do!    You'll  agree  so  well." 

"So  long  as  you  agree  with  me,  Hild,  I  don't  care." 

"Well,  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all.  I  like  Mr. 
Kontze.  He's  foreign,  but  that  makes  him  all  the 
more  interesting.  He's  been  to  such  a  lot  of  places. 
And  he  can  talk  about  them,  too.  I'm  sick  of 
people  who've  only  lived  in  this  town  all  their  lives." 

She  could  not  see  how  the  shaft  told,  but  she 
could  feel  his  arm  tremble;  and  he  said  in  a  moment: 

"Then  it's  lucky  I'm  going  away." 

"Didn't  you  begin  at  the  very  beginning  by  saying 
how  lucky  it  was?"  she  asked. 

"Hild,  you  know  why." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  very  well.  Just  as  I'd  feel  my- 
self. Anything  to  get  away  from  Beverly!" 

"Anything,  Hild,  to  get  all  that's  sweet  in  Beverly 
or  anywhere  else  in  the  world  for  my  own!" 

"Oh,  that's  easy  to  say." 

"You  know  it's  true." 

She  was  so  miserable  that  she  let  him  slip  his 
hand  over  hers,  and  the  strength  and  warmth  of  it 
were  comforts.  The  night  was  too  sharp  for  linger- 
ing by  the  gate,  and  he  would  not  come  in,  for  he  saw 
the  shadow  of  a  man  on  the  blind. 

The  talk  with  Mrs.  Emery  had  come  about,  and 
Hild's  mother  was  so  angry  that  she  tried  to  extract 
promises  from  Hild  to  the  effect  that  she  would  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  the  young  man;  but  Hild 

39 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

would  promise  nothing,  and  Simeon's  cause  was  dis- 
tinctly on  the  gain.  When  he  left  she  began  to  look 
for  his  frequent  letters,  and  it  was  almost  compen- 
sation for  his  absence  to  get  three  or  four  times  a 
week  long  and  well-written  love-letters.  He  poured 
out  his  soul  to  her  in  return  for  occasional  and  very 
formal  little  notes.  Otherwise  life  was  excessively  dull. 

Chloe  came  home  at  Christmas — a  somewhat 
different  Chloe,  dressed  with  the  greatest  care,  with 
hair  done  in  a  lately  introduced  style  which  was  be- 
coming but  a  little  over-impressive.  She  had  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  the  dullness  of  Beverly,  the 
impossibility  of  living  there  for  more  than  two  weeks 
at  a  stretch,  the  provinciality  of  the  people,  and  she 
was  full  of  pity  for  poor  Hild's  trying  fate. 

Now,  Hild  had  been  very  sorry  for  herself,  but 
it  did  not  necessarily  mean  that  she  wanted  any  one 
else  to  be  sorry  for  her,  so  she  put  a  very  brave  face  on 
the  matter  and  squashed  sympathy.  When  Chloe, 
moreover,  turned  her  wit  upon  Jean  Kontze,  Hild 
grew  dignified.  He  and  his  music  were  all  she  had 
at  the  moment  to  present  in  the  face  of  Chloe's 
conquests  and  brilliant  prospects,  so  she  made  the 
most  of  them,  though  in  a  half-hearted  way.  Her 
defense,  however,  was  so  noticeable,  as  compared 
with  her  attitude  toward  the  musician  three  months 
ago,  that  Chloe  looked  startled.  She  had  been 
showing  Hild  her  new  clothes,  and  now  she  sat  down 
on  a  spangled  ball-gown  suitable  for  a  woman  of 
forty  and  looked  gravely  at  her  friend. 

40 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"Is  he  in  love  with  you?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  gracious  no!  Much  more  likely  to  be  in  love 
with  mama." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  That  green  hat  is  perfectly 
lovely,  Chloe." 

"I  must  tell  mama  to  invite  you  to  New  York  next 
winter,"  promised  Miss  Carson.  It  had  arrived 
at  the  point  where  she  told  her  parents  what  to  do 
and  they  did  it. 

"Simeon  came  to  see  me  quite  a  lot  before  I  came 
away,"  Chloe  let  drop  before  Hild  left  her.  "He's 
getting  on  awfully  well.  Papa  knows  the  man  whose 
office  he's  in.  I  guess  he'll  make  a  lot  of  money 
some  day.  Does  he  write  often?" 

"Not  lately."  Hild  raised  a  haughty  chin. 
"Mama  doesn't  like  me  to  write  to  him.  She  says — 
youknowshe  thinks  his  mother's  dreadfully  common." 

"Oh,  of  course.  But  he's  all  right  to  send  you 
flowers  and  so  forth.  Some  of  the  girls  at  school 
have  twenty  or  thirty  men's  photographs  on  their 
bureaus,  and  one  girl  I  know  has  fifteen  frat  pins. 
She  wears  them  all  on  her  waist  just  here" — Chloe 
indicated  the  right  spot — "and  one  day  she  had 
three  bunches  of  violets  from  different  fellows. 
She's  simply  the  loveliest  thing.  She's  been  to 
Europe  twice,  and  brought  back  such  a  lot  of  clothes! 
She  could  have  been  married  to  a  lot  of  men.  But 
she's  waiting  for  a  grande  passion.  She  knows  the 
world  awfully  well,  and  I  can  tell  you  she  has  lived." 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Later  on,  when  Hild  had  departed,  Chloe  invaded 
the  middle-aged  comfort  of  the  library  to  drag  her 
father  from  the  perusal  of  his  paper  and  to  divert 
her  mother  from  her  knitting.  Mrs.  Carson  was  a 
comfortable  lady,  who  looked  up  to  her  lively 
daughter  and  showed  her  that  she  did.  She  had  a 
motherly  heart,  badly  managed  by  an  indolent  mind, 
and  was  the  soul  of  kindness  and  conscientiousness. 
She  was  just  barely  presentable  enough  not  to  hinder 
her  rising  husband  nor  to  humiliate  him  when  he  had 
risen. 

"Papa,"  said  Chloe,  as  if  it  were  all  his  fault,  "I 
believe  there  is  something  in  what  people  are  saying 
about  Hild." 

"Well,  and  what's  that,  chick?"  inquired  her  ad- 
miring dad. 

"I  told  you  last  night  at  supper" — this  reproach- 
fully— "that  she  will  end  by  liking  him.  I  think 
Mrs.  Emery  means  to  arrange  it." 

"No!" 

"Yes,  I  do.  Hild  was  quite  huffy  to-day  when  I 
made  fun  of  him.  They  say  he's  always  there." 

"What's  become  of  young  Simeon?" 

"He's  away." 

"So  he  is,  and  at  seventeen  that  makes  a  lot 
of  difference,  doesn't  it?  Well,  well,  you're  all 
children  yet.  Hild  '11  be  all  right,  don't  you 
fret." 

Mrs.  Carson  glanced  up  as  Chloe  was  heard  to 
open  the  piano  in  another  room. 

42 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"I  should  think  Mrs.  Emery  'd  know  enough  not 
to  want  Hild  to  marry  a  foreigner,"  she  said. 

Accepting  the  inattentive  "Why?"  from  behind 
the  Senator's  paper  as  sufficient  encouragement,  she 
continued: 

"Her  own  marriage  ought  to  have  taught  her. 
Nobody  knew  a  thing  about  Paul  Emery  except  that 
he  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money  and  queer  ideas. 
You  remember  him,  don't  you?" 

Senator  Carson  laid  down  his  paper  and  removed 
his  glasses. 

"Yes,  I  do.  He  knew  a  lot — that  man.  In  those 
days  we  used  to  have  the  best  fishing  in  Maine  over 
at  Free  Rocks.  Emery  came  down  to  study  the 
fishermen.  Great  old  boys  they  were,  too,  in  those 
days.  None  like  'em  now.  He  got  a  bad  cold  on 
his  lungs  and  was  brought  to  the  hotel  here,  and  I'd 
got  to  know  him,  so  I  used  to  go  to  see  him  a  lot. 
That's  when  he  met  Alice  Clark.  She  was  a  hand- 
some girl,  no  doubt  about  that.  I  never  thought 
there  was  much  else  in  her  but  good  looks.  Emery 
thought  there  was,  though.  She  always  walked 
along  like  a  woman  who  is  thinking  of  something 
much  finer  than  you  could  guess.  Emery  believed 
it,  and  married  her  to  find  out  what  it  was.  Must 
have  been  a  bump  when  he  did  find  out!  I  was 
sorry  for  Emery." 

Mrs.  Carson's  mouth  settled  into  displeased  lines. 

"Now,  William,"  she  said,  "you  know  that  isn't 
fair!  I  think  it's  right  down  mean,  I  do.  Every- 
4  43 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

body  knew  he  took  that  girl — a  chambermaid  at 
Page's — to  New  York.  Just  as  if  anybody'd  stand 
that!  But  it's  always  just  the  same.  When  a  man 
is  a  brute  you  always  blame  a  woman!" 

"Well,  if  it  wasn't  for  women,  wouldn't  we  behave 
pretty  well?"  chuckled  the  Senator. 

His  paper  happened  to  be  of  interest,  so  he  re- 
turned to  it. 

Meanwhile  Hild  walked  home  in  the  blue-green 
twilight,  which  was  caught  and  lengthened  by  the 
piles  of  soft  snow.  Gentle  far-away  stars  came  out 
in  the  sunless  blue  sky,  and  Hild's  feet  made  a  sharp 
crunching  sound  on  the  covered  walks.  The  frost 
locked  the  winds  so  that  the  stillness  between  sounds 
was  uncanny.  Sleighs  slid  by  her  now  and  then, 
their  bells  merry  or  sweet,  according  to  their  near- 
ness. She  could  scarcely  see  the  people  who  passed 
on  the  opposite  sidewalk,  so  high  were  the  banks  of 
packed  snow  on  either  side  of  her  path.  She  pro- 
tected now  this  cheek,  now  that,  with  her  muff,  for 
the  air  met  her  flesh  like  a  smooth  mask  of  ice.  An 
old-fashioned  Christmas,  every  one  said,  and  bad 
for  the  undertakers! 

'  'Night!"  some  one  at  her  side  greeted  her.  She 
looked  up  over  her  muff  to  see  Mert  Massam  touch 
his  cap.  He  struck  her  as  being  terribly  cold  in  an 
overcoat  which  was  worn  thin,  but  he  fitted  his 
step  to  hers,  obviously  intending  to  walk  beside  her. 
She  felt  a  little  embarrassed  for  a  suitable  remark  to 

44 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

make.  Finally  she  lifted  her  lips  over  her  muff  far 
enough  to  say,  "Awfully  cold." 

"Unhum.  Guess  Weather  Bureau  '11  say  so  to- 
morrow." The  newly  established  Weather  Bureau  in 
connection  with  a  local  paper  was  one  of  Mert's  pet 
butts.  He  chuckled,  without  any  facial  expression 
to  correspond.  "Miry  reads  weather  reports.  Said 
to-day  'Slightly  warmer  this  evenin';  southwesterly 
winds.'  Ain't  goin'  in  to  tend  to  her  furnace.  She 
can  git  warm  on  southwesterly  winds." 

Miry  was  the  sister  whom  he  lived  with  as  much  as 
he  lived  in  any  special  place. 

Hild  laughed  into  her  muff. 

"Bin  up?"  inquired  Mert,  with  a  gesture  of  his 
thumb  toward  the  Carson  "mansion,"  to  quote  the 
local  papers,  which  stood  on  a  hill. 

Hild  nodded. 

Mert  condensed  whole  paragraphs  of  disgust  and 
disapproval  into  one  short  grunt.  Hild  looked  up 
surprised. 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  she  asked. 

"Better  t' hum." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  liked  the  Senator." 

"Do!"  Mert  touched  his  cap.  It  was  his  way  of 
showing  homage.  "Don't  like  fool  girls." 

"Chloe!"  Hild  ejaculated  in  surprise.  "Why, 
Mert,  she's  perfectly  lovely." 

"Fool  girl,"  repeated  the  man,  stubbornly. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  Hild's  thoughts  of  her 
friend  five  minutes  before  had  not  been  all  tender. 

45 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

That  would  have  been  too  much  to  expect  of  her. 
Chloe's  reference  to  Simeon,  whether  intentionally 
or  not,  had  left  on  Hild  the  impression  that  her 
former  lover  had  been  affixed  by  her  brilliant  friend. 
To  Hild  this  seemed  regrettable,  but  only  too  con- 
vincingly natural.  Up  to  the  time  Simeon  had  left 
Beverly  he  had  never  seen  any  one  but  Beverly 
people.  Of  course,  with  the  change  to  wider  horizons 
(thus  she  visioned  New  York  life)  his  standards 
changed.  She  was  well  trained  enough  in  the 
American  ideal  of  success  to  take  this  thought  with 
spirit.  Oh,  to  show  them  all!  Her  small  hands  had 
clenched  within  the  warmth  of  her  muff,  and  she 
had  then  and  there  formed  the  desperate  resolve 
of  "showing"  them  somehow,  sometime!  What  she 
was  to  "show"  was  not  quite  clear.  Perhaps  it  was 
an  indomitable  something  within  her  and  of  which 
she  was  increasingly  conscious,  which  only  wanted 
the  light  of  inspiration  to  work  marvels. 

So  when  Mert  described  her  friend  in  his  terse  and 
uncomplimentary  phrase  she  may  not  have  been 
wholly  displeased.  She  may  even  have  wished  she 
shared  his  convictions.  However,  she  answered, 
loyally: 

"Oh  no.  Chloe's  a  dear,  and  the  prettiest 
thing!" 

"Sell  her  at  a  church  fair  for  thirty  cents." 

"No,  you  don't!"  Hild  laughed.  "Why,  the  bow 
in  her  hair  cost  more  than  that!  I'm  the  thirty-cent 
girl,  Mert." 

46 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"You're  dandy!"  Mert  was  emphatic.  "Wouldn't 
sell  you  for  a  cart-load  of  tobaccy  'n  a  book." 

"What  would  you  sell  me  for,  then?" 

Mert  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  his  sister's  front 
room,  for  they  had  reached  the  gate.  Kontze's  side 
of  the  house  was  dark.  They  knew  he  must  be  with 
Hild's  mother. 

"Fiddle!"  said  Mert.  For  a  second,  while  he 
touched  his  hat  and  swung  abruptly  away  down  the 
street,  she  thought  the  word  was  an  ejaculation  of 
displeasure  that  there  would  be  no  music  for  him 
to-night.  Then  she  suddenly  saw  that  it  was  the 
answer  to  her  question.  Mert  would  sell  her  for  a 
fiddle  if  she  were  his  to  sell.  Luckily  she  wasn't 
his  or  any  one's  yet.  Cold  as  it  was,  she  did  not 
hurry  to  the  door.  She  was  glad  Kontze  was  there, 
to  be  sure.  They  would  have  some  music,  and  Hild 
was  getting  on  so  well  now  that  Jean  rarely  flew  at 
her  as  he  used  to  do  when  her  lessons  began.  Her 
singing  had  been  put  aside,  as  Jean  said  he  didn't 
understand  the  voice  and  wouldn't  let  her  sing 
without  instruction.  But  he  had  introduced  to  her 
the  wonderful  world  which  musicians  own  and  which 
she  was  beginning  to  claim  as  hers.  No  one  but 
Jean,  not  even  her  mother,  knew  how  it  had  cap- 
tivated her.  He  understood  and  watched  the  de- 
veloping of  that  soul  for  music  which  he  had  detected 
in  her  at  once.  While  they  played  together  there  was 
a  sympathy  between  them  which  spoke  in  the  music 
they  made.  Jean  had  come  to  hate  the  idea  of 

47 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

playing  his  own  music  to  any  other  accompaniment. 
Hild's  technique  still  wanted  years  of  hard  training, 
but  her  comprehension  of  all  he  told  her,  her  quick- 
ness of  grasping  the  musical  idea,  were  all  even  he 
could  expect  or  wish.  Yet  when  he  laid  aside  his 
violin  and  she  moved  away  from  the  piano  there  was 
so  great  a  sea  of  differences  between  them  that 
talking  to  each  other  was  as  if  two  people  on  either 
side  of  the  Atlantic  had  tried  to  toss  weighted  mes- 
sages across.  But  Hild  was  comely  and  a  woman, 
which  was  all  Jean  looked  for  in  her,  while  he,  apart 
from  his  music,  was  nothing  Hild  had  learned  to  ad- 
mire as  a  man. 

To-night,  however,  she  had  been  conscious  that 
Chloe's  question  as  to  his  feeling  for  her  had  awak- 
ened a  new  idea. 

She  slowly  turned  the  knob  of  the  door  and  entered 
the  bare  hall.  She  could  hear  her  mother's  voice  at 
once,  and  Kontze's  responses  came  in  somewhat 
excited  tones.  Once  she  heard  her  own  name. 
When  she  entered  the  room  both  had  stopped  talking. 
Her  mother  was  regulating  the  lamp  and  Jean  was 
smoking  furiously.  Hild  caught  a  glance  which  her 
mother  threw  toward  Jean,  but  she  could  not  see 
that  he  made  any  response. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  girl. 

As  Jean  did  not  answer,  Mrs.  Emery  was  forced 
to  reply. 

"Nothing.     Why?" 

"You  both  look  funny." 

48 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Mrs.  Emery  sat  down  and  took  up  some  knitting. 

"Go  and  take  your  things  off  and  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it,  Hild,"  she  said. 

Her  tone  went  straight  to  Hild's  heart  and  set  it 
quivering.  Something  was  going  to  happen.  She 
was  sure  of  it.  She  had  time  while  she  was  smooth- 
ing her  hair  to  brace  herself  against  her  mother's 
talent  for  nagging.  Whatever  was  coming,  it  clearly 
had  to  do  with  herself  and  her  future.  Hild  was  too 
young  and  too  heart-sore  to  have  a  sane  outlook  on 
that  future,  but  still  she  was  nearer  to  having  it 
than  her  mother.  This  she  knew  instinctively. 
When  a  woman  has  failed  and  blames  the  world,  or 
circumstance,  for  it  she  has  no  word  worth  saying  to 
youth.  Hild  felt  this  none  the  less  keenly  because 
she  did  not  put  it  into  words. 

When  she  re-entered  the  parlor  they  were  waiting 
for  her.  She  understood  that  they  had  exchanged 
hurried  words  during  her  short  absence.  She 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  she  took  her 
place  defensively  on  the  other  side  of  the  low  table 
so  that  they  had  to  look  across  it  to  see  her.  Mrs. 
Emery  knew  a  thrill  of  pride  as  the  lamplight  fell 
on  her  daughter.  Hild  stood  very  erect;  her  face, 
which  had  lost  its  tan,  bore  the  full  brightness  upon 
it.  Her  eyes  were,  for  the  moment,  lowered,  and  her 
girlhood,  with  all  its  fresh  sweetness,  was  there,  un- 
defended, before  them.  But  when  she  raised  her 
brown  eyes  and  confronted  her  mother  with  their 
glance  Mrs.  Emery  was  conscious  that  something 

49 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

there  was  able  to  oppose,  even  to  defeat,  her,  if  it  so 
willed.  Ignorant  and  unskilled  as  the  hand  might 
be,  the  weapon  lay  ready  to  use. 

Jean  looked  at  the  girl  with  other  eyes.  He  saw 
her  superb  health  and  her  beauty  and  he  attached  to 
his  image  of  her  her  special  usefulness  to  him. 
The  man  in  him  swamped  the  musician  as  he  looked, 
and  the  man  in  him  was  a  singularly  stupid  animal. 
He  liked  the  roundness  of  Hild's  lines,  the  warm 
color  on  her  cheek,  the  richness  and  wealth  of  her 
hair.  He  liked  her  look  of  strength  and  energy. 
She  looked  like  a  girl  who  would  develop  into  a 
robust  woman,  one  who  could  rise  at  six  and  work 
all  day  without  tiring.  Jean  had  imbibed  from  his 
father  and  his  father's  people  the  idea  that  a  woman 
failed  unless  she  were  capable  of  just  this.  Taken 
now,  Hild  would  make  the  sort  of  wife  he  wanted,  he 
thought.  He  had  no  wish  to  win  her.  He  had 
really  not  considered  her  side  of  the  question  for  a 
moment.  It  was,  of  course,  every  woman's  business 
to  marry  and,  having  married,  to  like  it,  or  else 
there  was  something  wrong  with  the  woman.  And 
it  was  because  Hild  struck  him  as  the  right  sort  of  a 
woman  that  he  had  picked  her  out.  Therefore  if  she 
married  him  she  would  do  her  duty  and  be  the  better 
for  it.  If  he  reasoned  the  matter  out  at  all  it  was 
thus  he  settled  it. 

It  was  evidently  Mrs.  Emery  who  was  to  be 
spokesman. 

"Hild,"  she  said,  "Jean  has  a  most  excellent 

So 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

chance  to  join  a  New  York  orchestra.  He  thinks  he 
must  accept." 

Hild  was  conscious  of  consternation.  This,  too, 
then  was  going  out  of  her  life. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  blankly. 

Her  mother  continued: 

"He  wishes  to  tell  you  about  his  prospects  and  to 
make  a  suggestion  which  has  my  most  hearty  ap- 
proval. I  am  no  longer  young,  my  child,  and  now 
that  I  have  quite  lost  track  of  your  father  I  am  all 
you  have  in  the  world.  This  is  a  hard  thought  to 
sleep  on,  Hild,  and  I  have  so  many  hard  thoughts." 
Mrs.  Emery's  voice  broke  as  Hild  had  known  it 
would  at  this  point.  "Dear  child,  if  you  settle  this 
matter  happily  I  shall  be  glad.  If  you  feel  you  can- 
not, I  can  bear  it,  as  I  have  borne  everything  else. 
I  can  bear  that,  Hild,  but  I  could  not  bear  the  thought 
that  you  will  ever  leave  me  for  a  man  who  would 
teach  you  to  neglect  and  forget  your  mother.  That 
would  kill  me.  I  admit  it.  It  is  best  that  you  know. 
We  ask  for  no  hurry.  I  am  only  anxious  that  you 
should  decide.  I  do  not  wish  to  influence  you,  but 
now  that  Jean  is  leaving  us  is  the  time  to  settle 
whether  it  is  to  be  forever.  Will  you  let  the  one 
who  has  brought  you  so  much,  who  is  congenial  to 
you  in  so  many  ways,  who  could  give  you  so  broad 
and  noble  a  life,  go  away  to  never  return?  But 
think  well,  Hild,  my  dearest." 

She  rose  to  go,  but  as  she  moved  toward  the 
door  Hild  gave  a  cry  and  bounded  after  her, 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

seizing  her  with  hands  that  held  her  firmly,  des- 
perately. 

"Don't  go,  mother;    don't,  don't  go!" 

Her  eyes  were  fastened  on  Jean.  He  had  not 
stirred  during  her  mother's  words.  He  did  not  seem 
greatly  concerned.  He  looked  comfortable  and  a 
little  sleepy,  but  his  eyes  followed  Hild. 

Mrs.  Emery  drew  away  with  a  gentle,  "Come, 
Hild." 

"He  can  say  what  he  wants  to  say  with  you  here," 
said  the  girl,  breathing  fast.  "Mother,  you  mustn't 

go." 

"Hild,  you  distress  me." 

At  that  the  girl's  hands  dropped.  The  muscles 
in  her  bare  throat  tightened,  and  Jean  could  see  how 
white  the  flesh  was  beneath  her  raised  chin.  Mrs. 
Emery  rustled  out  of  the  room  and  Hild,  listening 
desperately,  heard  the  click,  click  of  the  gently  closed 
door.  To  Hild  it  seemed  desertion,  almost  unhuman. 

Jean  let  her  stand  there.  He  did  not  knock  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe,  nor  rise.  He  and  Mrs.  Emery 
had  discussed  the  whole  thing,  and  he  considered  it 
settled.  Perhaps  it  was  to  be  expected  that  Hild 
should  be  startled.  He  really  had  no  means  of 
knowing  how  girls  took  these  things.  They  were 
brought  up,  he  took  it  for  granted,  in  the  protection 
of  ignorance,  just  as  chickens  were  brought  up  in 
incubators.  Neither  chickens  nor  girls  had  any 
means  of  knowing  what  was  going  on  in  the  world 
outside,  and  so,  of  course,  they  believed  what  they 

52 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

were  told,  and  acted  accordingly.  Hild  had  been 
told  pretty  plainly  what  her  duty  was,  and  he  did  not 
dream  that  she  would  question  it.  As  for  himself,  he 
was  immensely  satisfied. 

"Your  esteemed  mother,"  he  said  at  length,  "has, 
I  do  not  doubt,  made  clear  to  you  that  I  hope  you 
will  promise  to  marry  me.  Not  at  once — no,  no! 
You  must  understand  I  have  first  to  arrange  many 
things.  But  when,  perhaps  a  few,  perhaps  many 
months,  have  passed  I  will  come  back,  when  the  time 
comes,  and  we  will  be  married." 

Hild  caught  at  her  hands,  twisting  one  in  the 
other,  her  face  growing  slowly  white.  Jean,  watch- 
ing her,  continued: 

"You  are  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  kindly,  "an'  will 
make  a  good  wife.  We  will  play  much  together. 
It  will  be  good,  very  good.  When  you  are  under 
my  eye  always  I  can  teach  you  better,  oh  yes! 
You  will  soon  be  fairly  skilled  with  the  piano.  You 
will  be  able  to  give  lessons  and  accompany  me  in 
concerts.  That  will  please  you — yes?" 

Hild's  glance  fell. 

"Mr.  Kontze,  I  could  do  that  without  marrying 
you." 

He  looked  at  her  sharply,  raising  himself  in  his 
chair,  his  pipe  smoke  rising  unheeded. 

"You  say?" 

"I  say  I  need  not  marry  you!"  She  faced  him 
bravely.  "Don't  you  see  that  all  you  want  is  a 
musical  assistant?  All  I  want  is  a  life  away  from 

53 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

this  place,  an  independent  life  of  my  own.  I  want 
to  be  an  artist.  I've  thought  almost  a  year  about  it 
now.  I  know  it's  what  I'm  fitted  for.  If  I  could 
earn  a  little,  mama  could  afford  to  live  in  Boston. 
I  could  gladly  accompany  you  and  work  with  you 
and  for  you,  and  you,  in  return,  could  help  me,  too. 
Please,  please  don't  talk  of  marrying.  I  don't  want 
to  be  married.  I'm  only  a  girl.  I'll  do  anything 
for  you  really  and  truly,  but  I  can't,  can't  marry 
you,  Mr.  Kontze." 

He  had  heard  her  to  the  end,  listening  with  closer 
attention  than  he  was  wont  to  give  to  any  one's 
words.  His  pipe  had  gone  out.  The  slow  red  was 
mounting  to  his  temples.  The  curious  solidity  that 
sometimes  held  him  dropped  away  like  a  mask,  and 
his  quick  Latin  blood  rose  furiously. 

"Child — idiot!  You  do  not  know  what  you  speak. 
It  is  impossible.  I  tell  you  I  want  a  wife.  To  help 
me  you  must  be  mine — mine.  Not  what  you  call 
independent — independent.  What  good  would  you 
be  to  me  then,  tell  me  that.  I,  Jean  Kontze,  am  I 
a  mere  street-organ  man,  to  talk  to  me  so?  The 
time  will  come  when  I  am  great — great  beyond  your 
eyes  to  see!  My  music  will  be  everywhere.  The 
world — it  will  offer  me  all  things!  Meantime  I 
need  a  wife — a  woman  to  help — to  keep  me  comfort- 
able, happy.  To  come  when  I  call  or  go  when  I  say. 
Independent!  Idiot!  Have  you  no  sense?  If  I 
want  an  independent,  can  I  not  hire  one?  I  say — I 
will  give  you  money  if  you  will  do  so  and  so.  She 

54 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

say  maybe  no,  maybe  yes.  That  is  an  independent. 
But  a  wife — ah,  that  is  different.  It  makes  no  dif- 
ference if  it  is  night  of  morning,  if  she  is  well  or  sick. 
So!" 

"Oh!"  said  Hild.    "Oh!" 

Her  rapid  mind  searched  backward  for  anything  to 
compare  with  Jean's  words.  She  remembered  whole 
pages  of  sentiment  which  formed  her  ideal  of  love- 
making  and  which  she  had  gleaned  from  cheap 
novels  it  is  to  be  feared.  Simeon  had  only  spoken 
of  marriage  as  some  far-away  dream  of  happiness 
wherein  she,  if  he  won  her,  was  to  be  queen  absolute 
in  a  world  made  expressly  for  him  and  her.  Her 
mother,  she  knew,  looked  upon  it  as  a  state  wherein 
a  woman  should  be  made  wholly  contented,  and  en- 
joy unlimited  generosity  and  devotion.  Hild  had 
learned  to  regard  Mrs.  Emery's  disappointment  as 
a  thing  so  rare  as  to  be  particularly  cruel.  And  yet 
her  mother  had  distinctly  urged  her  to  accept  this 
man,  whose  idea  of  marrying  her  seemed  to  be  much 
the  same  as  it  would  have  been  in  investing  in  a 
slave.  And  even  while  she  listened  to  his  words  she 
knew  they  were  very  real,  as  much  she  had  listened 
to  about  love  and  marriage  was  not.  At  any  rate, 
he  had  told  her  what  he  wanted.  If  he  had  pleaded 
with  her  every  bone  in  her  body  would  have  shud- 
dered away  from  him.  She  had  never  come  so  near 
to  liking  him  as  she  did  now. 

"You  understand  ?"  he  asked  her,  and,  taking  up  his 
pipe,  he  relighted  it  with  a  hand  that  still  trembled. 

55 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"I  think  I  do.  But  I  can't  marry  you,  Mr. 
Kontze." 

He  started  to  his  feet  and  rushed  upon  her,  shak- 
ing his  hand  in  her  face. 

"You  say  that  to  me?"  he  cried.  "You  dare! 
I  tell  you  I  wish  it.  I,  Jean  Kontze,  am  I  not  to  be 
considered?  I,  a  genius,  one  who  will  give  to  the 
world  noble  songs  to  rejoice  nations?  Who  are 
you  to  defy  me?  What  do  you  intend?  Are  you 
a  no-good  girl,  after  all  ?  A  doll — a  fool — a  common 
creature  of  no  soul?  I  have  come  to  like  you,  to 
wish  for  you  more  than  for  another.  I  can  play 
with  you  beside  me — yes — I  tell  you  I  can  work 
with  you.  Is  this  nothing?  Is  this  a  thing  to  say 
'No'  to?  I  say  it  is  not.  It  is  all  arranged,  I  tell 
you.  You  are  a  girl,  a  child.  You  have  no  sense. 
It  is  I  and  your  mother  who  know." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  help  you 
without  marrying  you." 

"Yah — the  girl  is  a  fool.  I  feared  it!  You  are 
no  good  to  me  without  marrying,  I  tell  you  so. 
You  will  talk  no  more.  It  is  settled.  When  you 
think  a  little  you  will  know  it  is  right.  How  can  a 
child  like  you  tell  what  she  wants?  All  women  want 
to  marry.  It  is  their  nature.  Otherwise  where 
would  the  babies  come  from?  You  are  made  with- 
out sense,  because  who  with  sense  would  have 
babies?  So!  Therefore  you  do  not  know  what 
you  want.  You  say  you  wish  music.  Very  well. 
You  will  have  music.  You  know  nothing  about 

56 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

marriage,  but  every  one  knows  it  is  what  women  wish. 
Therefore  you  will  like  it  when  it  comes.  So  it  is!" 

Hild's  pallor  was  gone. 

"But  if  I  wanted  to  marry  some  one  else?" 

He  turned  on  her  so  suddenly  that  she  stepped  back. 

"So!  I  surprised  it.  It  is  indeed  time  you  mar- 
ried! It  is  the  wretched  young  robber  who  over- 
throws strangers.  The  earless  puppy — yes,  it  is  he! 
Your  mother  has  feared  it.  I  have  feared  it.  You 
love  him?  Is  it?  It  is  thus  they  keep  their  maidens 
in  this  strange  land!  The  earless  puppy  has  gone 
away  and  you  still  remember  him.  Yah!  And  I, 
Jean  Kontze,  offer  marriage  to  you  and  you  think  you 
dare  to  refuse!  I  shall  go.  I  can  no  longer  contain 
my  anger.  I  shall  go.  I  shall  leave  you  to  your 
mother.  We  will  talk  again  when  she  has  taught 
you  sense.  Not  till  then.  But  I  will  have  no  ear- 
less puppies.  Recall  that!" 

To  the  girl's  infinite  relief  he  kept  his  word  and  left 
her.  Before  Hild  could  be  sure  he  had  gone  Mrs. 
Emery  slipped  gently  into  the  room. 

"Hild,  my  child." 

The  girl  turned  on  her. 

"Don't  speak  to  me!"  she  said,  and  then  suddenly 
she  put  her  hands  to  a  face  contorted  with  childish 
sobs,  her  shoulders  and  whole  body  shaken  by  the 
force  of  them.  Before  her  mother  could  reach  her  she 
had  fled  to  her  own  room,  and  there,  with  trembling 
fingers,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  locked  the 
door. 


CHAPTER  V 

HPHE  days  that  followed  were  days  of  silent 
1  persecution.  Chloe  had  gone  back  to  school, 
puzzled  and  hurt  by  her  friend's  unwonted  reserve. 
"Hild  doesn't  look  well,"  she  told  her  mother; 
"keep  your  eye  on  her,  that's  a  dear."  Which  be- 
hest Mrs.  Carson  promptly  forgot. 

Mrs.  Emery  went  about  the  house,  talking  little, 
except  to  Kontze,  and  sighing  much,  especially  when 
Hild  was  within  earshot.  There  were  no  music  les- 
sons. Hild  did  not  know  that  it  was  her  mother 
who  suggested  this.  "She  will  learn  what  she  will 
have  to  miss,"  she  had  told  Jean.  As  to  Jean,  he 
put  off  his  departure  from  day  to  day  and  Hild, 
under  the  oppression  of  her  mother's  reproachful 
silence  and  Jean's  angry  face,  nearly  went  mad. 
She  missed  the  music  more  than  any  words  could 
express,  and  she  found  herself  thinking  of,  and 
longing  for,  the  hours  of  rapturous  forgetfulness 
which  Jean's  genius  gave  her.  She  tried  hard  to  put 
this  away  from  herj  but  she  was  very  young  and  she 
had  no  help. 

Even  Simeon  had  forgotten  her — that  seemed 
clear.  Since  Chloe  had  returned  he  had  not  written 
to  her  once,  but  Chloe  had  mentioned  his  having 

58 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

gone  to  call  on  her  immediately  upon  her  arrival. 
So  her  dawning  feeling  for  Simeon  turned  back  upon 
itself  and  all  went  to  add  to  her  suffering. 

One  night  she  had  gone  early  to  her  room,  unable 
to  bear  her  mother's  patient  sighs.  Moreover,  she 
sometimes  heard  Jean  playing  if  she  came  up-stairs 
in  time,  and  to-night  she  longed  for  music.  She 
lay  down  wrapped  in  a  shawl  on  the  outside  of  her 
bed.  Snow  was  falling  and  a  sort  of  reflected 
brightness  relieved  the  darkness  of  her  room. 

Temptation  of  a  subtle,  unfair  sort  was  upon 
her.  What  if  she  yielded!  Her  life  looked  black  to 
her  wherever  she  turned.  Always,  always  her 
mother's  personality  must  hinder  and  hobble  her. 
She  herself — would  she  not  grow  small  and  narrow, 
too?  Was  it  not  what  she  saw  again  and  again  about 
her?  Was  there  any  escape,  unless  she  could  bring 
herself  to  be  cruel?  And  to  please  her  mother — 
was  not  this  a  duty  which  would  bring  its  own  joy? 
If  she  could  say  "Yes" — only  the  word — months 
would  pass,  even  years,  maybe,  before  more  would 
be  expected  of  her.  Meanwhile — who  could  tell — 
perhaps  she  would  learn  to  like  the  idea — and  she 
could  have  peace  and  her  music.  At  the  worst  would 
not  life  lived  with  a  great  musician  be  better  than 
any  other  life  she  was  likely  to  find  ?  And  Jean  was 
great.  She  believed  it  with  almost  his  own  conviction. 

As  she  gave  herself  over  to  these  thoughts  there 
came  the  sound  of  his  violin.  He  played  as  if  he 
knew  she  were  listening,  and  the  music  he  played 
5  59 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

seized  and  compelled  her.  It  was  not  love  music. 
It  spoke  of  worlds  and  beauties  above  all  mortal 
ken;  it  freed  and  perfected  the  wonders  of  her  own 
soul;  it  lifted  and  inspired  her.  On  and  on  it  led, 
up  and  up;  it  raised  her,  heart  and  soul,  far  above  the 
level  of  daily  life.  It  promised  unutterable  things, 
teaching  her  to  desire  the  unattainable,  to  struggle 
for  it  and  to  die  in  search  of  it.  It  spurned  all  she 
could  oppose  to  it.  Like  pain  itself,  it  could  not  be 
put  aside;  no  reason  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  It 
was  there,  speaking  to  her,  claiming  her,  calling  her. 
And  because  she  had  ears  to  hear,  it  told  her  she 
must  accept  all  it  might  inflict.  She  must  accept  and 
hear  and  learn  and  achieve.  She  must  free  the  god 
within  her  and  follow  with  feet  however  weary,  with 
heart  however  sad,  where  it  led.  All  her  flesh,  all 
her  mortal  being,  meant  nothing  but  to  serve  it. 
And  if  she  refused — thus  it  spoke  to  her  and  the 
sternness  of  ages  was  in  its  singing  tones — she  must 
bear  with  the  fallen  angels  the  failure  which  might 
have  been  victory,  the  eternal  unrest  that  might 
have  been  peace.  Could  she  face  that? 

With  the  question  the  music  was  stilled.  Hild 
lay  dreaming  it  over  again.  She  knew  what  it  had 
wrought.  It  was  as  if  a  miracle  had  descended  upon 
her.  Out  of  eternity  a  word  had  been  spoken,  a 
command  had  been  issued.  It  was  in  her  power  to 
obey.  To  fail  meant  the  ignoring  of  her  soul.  If  it 
led  her  through  a  martyr's  pain,  go  she  must  and 
could.  It  was  not  possible  for  her  to  hesitate  or  to 

60 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

swerve.  All  her  life  she  must  listen  for  the  repetition 
of  that  call.  She  did  not  know  what  it  meant,  she 
did  not  even  know  what  it  required  of  her.  But  she 
did  know  that  no  personal  pain  mattered,  and  that 
she  must  accept,  must  obey,  must  labor. 

She  moved  away  from  the  bed.  Jean  had  begun 
to  play  again.  Quietly  she  crept  out  of  her  door  into 
the  hall.  Her  mother  was  in  their  own  little  parlor 
and  the  stairs  led  down  almost  to  Jean's  door.  She 
descended  step  by  step,  listening  as  she  went.  At  his 
door  she  paused.  Her  muscles  failed  her.  In  her  throat 
there  rose  a  choking  cry,  and  she  put  her  ringers  to 
her  lips  to  keep  it  back.  Then  she  turned  the  knob. 

He  stood  with  his  back  to  her,  playing  by  the 
light  of  a  candle.  His  figure  swayed  as  he  played, 
so  did  the  flame  of  the  candle,  so  did  the  shadows  in 
the  room.  It  was  a  moment  before  he  turned,  feel- 
ing that  some  one  watched  him.  When  he  saw  her, 
her  white  face  and  shining  eyes,  he  came  nearer  and 
shut  the  door  for  her. 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  have  come  to  say — I  will  marry  you" — she 
lost  her  breath  over  the  word — "whenever  you  wish." 

He  looked  at  her,  looked  her  over  from  head  to  foot 
as  one  might  any  new  belonging  for  the  first  time 
one's  own.  Then  his  eyes  returned  to  her  face. 

"Was  it  Beethoven?"  he  asked  her. 

"Yes,  ah  yes.  And  I  will  be  good.  I  will  do  all 
you  say — all!  I  will  be  good." 

"So!"  he  said.     "You  had  better  go  to  bed." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  first  weeks  after  Jean's  arrival  in  New  York 
were  so  busy  that  he  could  only  be  happy  or 
wrathful  as  his  work  satisfied  or  some  one  else's 
exasperated  him.  A  certain  prima  donna,  not  good 
enough  for  the  Metropolitan  and  too  good  for  the 
ordinary  comic  opera,  had  formed  a  company  of  her 
own,  and  it  was  with  her  that  George  Everett  had 
found  a  chance  for  Jean.  Everett  was  a  man  of 
many  parts.  He  owned  a  restaurant,  ran  a  theatrical 
agency,  dabbled  in  stocks  and  shares,  and  led  a  life 
which  produced  in  him  a  hearty  contempt  for  most 
things,  one  exception  being  musical  talent.  He  was 
hand  in  glove  with  many  operatic  folk  and  right-hand 
man  to  Mme.  Cavari;  in  fact,  it  was  he  who  had 
proposed  to  her  this  venture,  and  she  was  only  too 
pleased  to  take  his  advice  as  to  her  first  violin. 

As  chance  would  have  it,  Mme  Cavari,  once  upon 
a  time  Ellen  Carey,  of  Maine,  owned  privately  as 
her  native  place  a  hamlet  not  five  miles  from  Beverly. 
When  Everett  arranged  to  have  her  see  Jean  she 
discovered  from  an  inadvertent  word  his  recent  ac- 
quaintance with  Beverly,  and  more  upon  her  in- 
terest in  all  he  had  to  say  about  the  place  than 
upon  his  musical  qualifications  he  was  engaged. 

62 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

It  meant  good  pay  and  more  openings  in  the  future, 
and  the  light  opera  she  was  to  present  had  some 
good  music  in  it,  so  Jean  left  her  quite  pleased  with 
his  morning's  work. 

From  that  time  forward  he  was  constantly  occu- 
pied. There  were  rehearsals  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
and  night  and  Jean  threw  his  heart  into  the  thing. 
Once  or  twice  he  courted  disaster  in  disagreeing  with 
the  conductor  on  some  matter  of  importance,  and 
once,  in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  he  stopped  short  to 
upbraid  his  fellow-violinists  in  terms  so  decisive  that 
Everett,  who  was  present,  was  constrained  to  inter- 
fere. But  Mme.  Cavari  liked  him  and  said  he 
accompanied  her  as  perfectly  as  her  heart-beats,  so  he 
came  to  no  trouble. 

But  when  the  hardest  work  was  over  he  began  to 
feel  lonely.  He  had  taken  a  room  in  a  down-town 
boarding-house.  It  had  none  of  the  personal  touches, 
the  air  of  belonging  to  some  one  which  had  made  his 
room  at  Miss  Massam's  pleasant.  It  was  like  a 
lobby — a  place  where  people  passed  through,  but 
never  stayed  longer  than  they  must.  It  was  a  mu- 
sical house — in  other  words,  it  was  frequented  by 
musicians,  and  no  one  had  a  right  to  bang  on  any 
one  else's  door  and  say,  "Stop  that  noise!"  He  had 
been  obliged  to  move  twice  because  he  had  been 
unlucky  enough  to  become  a  neighbor  to  sounds  that 
made  day  and  night  alike  hideous  to  the  sensitive 
Jean.  But  just  now  he  was  near  a  singing-teacher, 
who  went  to  bed  about  the  time  he  came  in  and  who 

63 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

had  a  room  below  for  lessons,  and  an  organist  who 
rarely  practised  at  home. 

He  still  managed  his  own  meals,  as  the  arrange- 
ment was  cheap  and  his  hours  irregular.  Some- 
times he  dined  or  supped  in  cafes.  He  liked, 
distinctly  liked,  putting  by  his  dollars,  and  there 
was  so  little  that  he  cared  for  in  the  way  of  plea- 
sure outside  of  his  music  that  the  little  was  really 
not  worth  the  money.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
did  not  know  he  was  handling  anything  of  value 
when  it  came  to  paying  for  a  sheet  of  music  he 
wanted  or  one  of  the  rare  books  he  read.  He  let  his 
garments  hang  upon  him  until  they  would  no  longer 
keep  out  the  cold.  He  wore  the  same  blue  tie, 
bought  in  Beverly  at  the  advice  of  a  combination  of 
ladies,  now  frayed  and  exposing  its  white  cotton 
lining.  His  teeth  and  hair  grew  dingy  through  neg- 
lect, and  his  hands  were  seldom  more  than  half 
clean.  He  was  altogether  as  shabby  and  unpre- 
possessing a  little  musician  as  you  would  be  likely 
to  see.  But  those  who  heard  him  did  not  bother  to 
see  him,  they  only  remembered  that  he  was  miracu- 
lously endowed  with  the  gift  of  bestowing  upon  them 
glimpses  of  the  unseeable,  hints  of  the  unknowable, 
a  releasing  of  winged  emotions  which  one  could  only 
know  for  one's  own  because  they  had  their  being 
in  one's  breast. 

Everett  had  given  him  a  piece  of  advice  early  in 
his  connection  with  the  Cavari. 

"You  stick  to  her  like  a  fly  on  a  horse's  ear!"  he 

64  ' 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

counseled.  "There  may  be  a  chance  for  you  such 
as  you'd  give  your  eyes  for.  You  can  bank  on  me! 
Jest  keep  yer  shirt  on  and  don't  get  gay  with  that 
red  devil  ye've  got  betwixt  yer  own  teeth." 

Soon  after  the  successful  first  night  of  "Perdita" 
Mme.  Cavari  asked  Jean  to  come  to  her  flat  for 
supper.  She  had  extended  the  invitation  on  impulse 
and  perhaps  regretted  it  when  she  shook  hands  with 
him  in  her  drawing-room,  for  the  first  time  seeing 
him  against  a  polite  background.  Half  a  dozen 
people  were  already  gathered  together  near  the 
piano  and  Jean  made  the  party  complete.  It  was 
not  long  before  he  plunged  suddenly  into  the  con- 
versation, and  from  that  moment  Cavari  felt  pleased 
that  she  had  dared  to  introduce  him  into  her  circle. 

The  most  notable  figure  in  the  room  to  Jean  was  a 
tall  man,  of  emaciated  features  and  deep-set,  bril- 
liant eyes,  who  leaned,  talking  little,  on  the  piano. 
He  was  addressed  as  Hanbury,  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  dominated  the  minds  of  the  group.  When 
he  spoke  to  Mme.  Cavari  he  called  her  Nellie,  and 
Jean  could  see  that  nothing  pleased  her  so  much  as 
to  hear  him  give  an  opinion  or^to  see  him  laugh. 
There  were,  besides  him,  a  poetic  young  man  of  un- 
healthy appearance,  called  Roger;  a  pretty  actress; 
and  a  man  and  girl,  brother  and  sister  Jean 
found,  by  the  name  of  Rale.  Of  these  two  the 
brother  was  the  one  who  interested  Jean,  because  he 
showed  a  genuine  appreciation  of  music.  The  two 
were  Southerners,  Jean  gathered,  and  Arthur  Rale 

65 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

showed  it,  suggesting  a  Creole,  dark  to  swarthiness, 
full-lipped,  and  somber-eyed.  Marcia,  the  sister, 
was  appreciably  the  elder  of  the  two,  colored  in  a 
uniform  brown,  a  woman  who  appeared  to  have  lost 
interest  in  her  own  plainness  and  to  have  kept  the 
bitterness  of  it  in  the  twist  of  her  dry  lips.  She 
moved  with  a  kind  of  grace,  and  she  gave  to  the 
general  conversation  acid  comments,  more  or  less 
acute,  which  had  their  value  in  the  whole  as  a  bitter 
spice  may  improve  a  cake. 

During  the  evening  Jean  was  induced  to  play, 
having  brought  his  violin  at  Cavari's  request.  Be- 
fore he  had  gone  far  he  singled  out  from  his  listeners 
young  Rale  and  Hanbury  and  played  to  them. 
Rale  with  lifted  head  and  eager  eyes,  Hanbury  with 
a  sudden  gathering  together  of  his  lax  figure,  told 
him  their  insight  into  the  musical  language  he  spoke. 
These  two  could  understand  whatever  he  liked  to  say 
to  them. 

It  was  during  the  progress  of  supper  that  Jean 
heard  Cavari  say  to  Hanbury: 

"Has  Fulton  given  in?" 

"No." 

"I  thought  not.     You  are  worried!" 

"You  always  know." 

"Of  course.     Will  you  see  him  again?" 

"There  is  no  use.  I  must  go  to  the  men.  It  is 
the  only  way." 

Young  Rale,  who  had  heard  something  of  the  dia- 
logue, turned  and  said,  with  heat: 

66 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"Fulton  is  right.  It's  fight,  fight,  I  tell  you!  They 
must  get  all  they  can.  Heaven  knows  it's  little  enough." 

Marcia  spoke  quickly: 

"Are  we  going  to  have  this  all  over  again?  Men 
may  suffer  and  their  families  starve,  but  isn't  it  too 
much  to  ask  that  we  should  always  be  bored  by  dis- 
cussing whether  or  not  it  might  be  prevented? 
Oh  dear — they're  off." 

They  were,  indeed.  Jean  knew  the  jargon  of 
socialism  thoroughly.  He  would  have  called  himself 
a  socialist  if  any  one  had  cared  to  know  his  politics. 
He  did  not  regard  the  questions  raised  very  seriously. 
He  listened  to  young  Rale's  violence,  Roger's  senti- 
ment, Marcia's  ridicule,  without  interest,  while  he 
ate  and  relished  his  excellent  meal.  What  caught 
his  attention  at  last  was  the  silence  of  Hanbury,  who, 
like  a  bored  but  expert  fencer,  parried  attack,  but 
made  no  sally  of  his  own.  Gradually  he  saw  that 
Hanbury  held  a  position  aloof  from  any  attitude 
familiar  to  Jean.  Arrested  by  the  sense  that  some- 
thing rather  fine  was  withheld,  Jean  laid  down  his 
fork,  wiped  his  mouth,  and  said,  interrupting  Roger: 

"What  is  it  that  you  think?" 

As  Hanbury  smiled  at  him  without  answering,  he 
asked  again: 

"I  mean,  I  want  what  is  in  your  mind.  Do  you 
not  understand  ?  Must  I  say  more  ?  You  have  much 
to  say.  Is  it  not  so?  Say  it  to  me.  I  am  listening." 

Hanbury  still  smiled  in  silence  and  Mme.  Cavari 
was  watching  him  when  Rale  broke  forth: 

67 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"Why,  it's  this  way,  Kontze.  Hanbury 's  a 
dreamer,  an  idealist.  I  reckon  there  ain't  another 
like  him  for  hoping  and  working  in  the  world.  He's 
done  more  fine  work  than  you'll  ever  hear  of,  but  he 
fails  because  he  looks  for  water  in  deserts,  and  good 
feeling  in  the  hearts  of  men  who  spend  their  lives 
grinding  the  poor.  He's  chasing  sunbeams,  and  it's 
no  use.  He  expects  to  bring  about  a  revolution  in 
industrial  conditions  by  getting  everybody  to  make 
bows  and  pretty  speeches  to  everybody  else.  He 
can't  see  that  what  a  man  has  won  by  robbery  he's 
not  going  to  give  up  from  pure  kindness  to  his  fellow- 
creatures.  That's  Hanbury." 

Mme.  Cavari  flushed,  and  spoke  coldly: 

"Moderation  is  not  your  strong  point,  Arthur. 
Mr.  Kontze,  Mr.  Hanbury  is  one  of  those  misunder- 
stood beings,  a  disinterested  man.  You  have  the 
long  and  the  short  of  it  there." 

"I  think  I  begin  to  see,"  said  Jean,  thoughtfully. 
"We  say,  'Give  me  this — give  me  that!'  and  we  shout 
very  loud  and  wave  our  hats  when  a  man  says  it  for 
us.  Yes.  And  the  more  he  tells  us  we  ought  to 
have  the  louder  do  we  shout.  Is  it  not  so?  We  do 
not  stop  to  wonder  if  it  is  just.  No.  A  man  with 
the  loud  voice  tells  us  we  should  have  it  and  we 
believe  him.  But  if  we  ask  for  it?  Then  perhaps  we 
get — what  you  call — 'left.'  And  we  curse  and  say 
we  are  oppressed!  Has  not  the  man  with  the  loud 
voice  told  us  so — very  loud,  indeed?" 

For  the  first  time  Hanbury  spoke: 

68 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"And  the  man  with  the  loud  voice  makes  a  good 
thing  of  it.  You  may  be  sure  of  that.  If  the 
people  did  not  hate  and  fear  their  masters  where 
would  he  be?  It  is  his  business  to  make  them  de- 
mand what  he  knows  will  not  be  granted,  so  that, 
whatever  they  get,  a  feeling  of  resentment  will  be 
sure  to  remain  with  them.  Let  them  ask  what  is 
just,  let  them  ask  first  and  then  demand.  There  is 
no  force  on  earth  strong  enough  to  keep  it  from 
them.  I  have  watched  and  I  know." 

"Ah,"  said  Jean,  "Yes.  But  there  are  some 
wrongs  that  can  never  be  made  right.  Is  it  not  so? 
Are  there  not  lives  that  have  been  wasted  and 
spoiled?  Will  not  some  one  have  to  answer  some- 
time? No?" 

For  a  moment  Jean  thought  that  Hanbury  meant 
to  answer  him.  A  silence  of  expectancy  lay  upon 
them  all.  Feeling  it,  Hanbury  glanced  from  face 
to  face  and,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  shook  his  head. 
Cavari  made  the  occasion  to  rise  and  led  the  way 
back  to  the  drawing-room. 

Jean  walked  for  a  part  of  his  way  home  with  the 
Rales.  Marcia  told  him  something  of  Hanbury. 
It  seemed  that  no  one  knew  much  about  him. 
Marcia  believed  that  he  was  an  Englishman  by  birth, 
but  he  had  lived  in  many  countries  in  touch  with 
all  classes.  He  had  spent  his  life  in  the  cause  of 
labor  and  was  now  working  for  a  concerted  rail- 
way strike.  The  need  of  readjustment  of  wages 
and  hours  among  railway  employees  was  well  known. 

69 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Hanbury  promised  the  men  success  if  they  would 
follow  him  consistently.  But  lately  he  had  been 
opposed  by  Fulton,  the  leader  of  the  Amalgamated 
Union  of  Railway  Workers,  who  wanted  the  men 
to  stand  out  for  better  terms  than  Hanbury  ad- 
vised asking.  Young  Rale,  Jean  gathered,  was  de- 
voted to  Hanbury,  but  was  impatient  of  his  modera- 
tion. 

"You  know  I  am  Mr.  Hanbury 's  secretary,"  said 
Marcia.  "I  take  down  all  his  fine  phrases  in  short- 
hand and  am  paid  for  it,  so  you  can't  expect  me  to 
see  how  very  fine  they  are." 

Young  Rale  asked  Jean  to  come  and  see  them  and 
gave  him  an  address. 

Strange  to  say,  Jean  remembered  the  invitation 
and  took  advantage  of  it.  The  house  where  Marcia 
had  a  tiny  flat  was  near  Jean's  boarding-house,  and 
Marcia  would  always  give  him  a  meal,  and  Rale 
never  wearied  of  Jean's  music.  Jean  learned,  bit 
by  bit,  the  story  of  the  pair.  Marcia  had  the  best  of 
Southern  blood  in  her  veins,  but  Arthur,  her  half- 
brother,  had  been  born  of  a  pretty  Creole,  the  second 
wife  of  a  broken  gentleman  whom  the  Civil  War 
had  left  destitute  and  weakened  in  health.  The 
second  Mrs.  Rale  had  no  distinction  of  birth  and 
small  education.  Her  son  developed  a  violent 
temper  and  a  stubborn  dislike  of  work.  Marcia 
however,  adored  him,  and  when,  after  their  father's 
death,  their  small  patrimony  was  spent,  she  man- 
aged to  support  herself  and  him  in  their  native  city. 

70 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

In  time  he  found  a  place  in  a  newspaper  office  and 
earned  a  meager  salary.  Then  a  great  misfortune 
befell  him.  He  became  engaged  to  a  girl,  much  his 
inferior  socially,  whom  he  nevertheless  devotedly 
loved  and  who  would  have  done  much  for  him  if  she 
had  not  suddenly  contracted  tuberculosis  and  died. 
The  circumstances  of  her  death  were  particularly 
sad,  as  her  life  might  have  been  saved  if  she  had  not 
struggled  to  keep  her  place  as  teacher  in  the  high 
school  long  after  she  was  too  ill  for  work.  An  uncle 
had  been  approached  about  her,  but  nothing  had 
been  done  until  too  late.  This  loss  had  loosened  the 
mechanism  of  Arthur's  mind  disastrously.  He  had 
gone  to  the  girl's  uncle,  who  was  a  wealthy  and  in- 
fluential citizen,  and  had  used  him  so  roughly  that 
the  city  was  no  longer  possible  to  the  Rales.  They 
had  come  to  New  York  in  straits  and  Hanbury  and 
Mme.  Cavari  had  befriended  them.  Arthur  wrote 
occasional  articles  for  a  socialist  paper,  and  Marcia 
labored  for  Hanbury,  receiving  a  salary  sufficient  for 
their  needs. 

Jean  was  welcome  to  them  for  different  reasons. 
Marcia  welcomed  him  as  she  did  anyone  who  could 
divert  her  brother.  Arthur  Rale  adored  Jean's  genius 
and  liked  him.  Both  were  lovely.  Marcia  was 
not  a  woman  to  attract  friends,  and  Rale  was 
too  unhappy  and  suspicious  to  keep  them.  Jean, 
in  his  own  way,  avoided  the  worst  of  brother  and 
sister  and  laid  hands  on  the  best.  He  had  a  fund  of 
picturesque  narrative  which  he  expended  for  them 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

between  long  silences,  during  which  the  two  men 
smoked  and  Marcia  moved  about  the  room,  unrest- 
ing as  the  wheels  of  a  clock.  She  would  sit  still  to 
listen  to  Jean's  music  and,  when  he  talked  of  nights 
and  days,  scenes  and  people,  unlike  anything  she 
knew,  she  followed  his  words,  though  they  were  not 
spoken  to  her.  He  had  seen  much  that  was  grim, 
much  that  was  sordid,  but  in  listening  Marcia 
could  look  through  his  words  as  if  they  were  windows 
and  she  one  who  passed  by  them,  seeing  through 
them  an  interior  which  made  her  wish  to  see  more. 
Arthur  Rale  fed  on  Jean's  stories,  for  many  of  them 
drove  home  the  facts  of  useless  poverty  and  pre- 
ventable crime. 

An  evening  came  in  April  when  Jean  found  Marcia 
alone.  He  was  so  accustomed  to  the  sitting-room 
shared  by  the  Rales  that  he  drew  a  chair  to  the 
window  and,  puffing  at  his  pipe,  watched  the  dusk 
deepen  in  the  street  below,  while  the  lamps  grew 
brighter.  Marcia  never  attempted  to  entertain  him, 
but  to-night  she  came  to  stand  by  his  elbow. 

"Jean!"  she  said. 

"Eh?"     He  looked  up  at  her. 

"I  wish  you'd  do  something  for  me." 

"Something?    What  is  it?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  tell  Arthur  about  your  life 
in  Paris  and  London.  It's  upsetting  him.  I  can 
tell!  You  know  he's  been  unlucky.  Well,  he  hates 
rich  people.  He  used  to  be  ashamed  that  his  moth- 
er's brother  was  a  cobbler.  Now  he  boasts  of  it. 

72 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

He's  given  up  Hanbury  and  has  taken  up  with  men 
I  know  aren't  safe.  His  mother  went  out  of  her 
mind  before  she  died.  They're  all  queer.  Arthur 
is  getting  a  fixed  idea  that  anybody  who  has  a  car- 
riage is  his  mortal  enemy.  I  don't  say  that  I  don't 
hate  them,  too.  I  do;  but  I  know  enough  to  keep 
it  under.  Arthur  doesn't." 

"He  is  silly — yes.  You  are  right.  But  many  are 
silly.  What  I  tell  him — it  is  but  truth.  Myself — 
I  do  not  know  why  truth  should  be  unspoken.  I 
cannot  be  troubled  to  be  quiet  when  I  wish  to 
speak.  No,  I  have  never  done  so.  I  shall  not 
begin." 

Marcia  lingered.  She  had  not  lighted  the  gas. 
Jean's  thoughts  held  him  unconscious  of  her  till 
she  spoke  again. 

"What  shall  you  do  when  'Perdita'  is  taken  off?" 

He  frowned.  The  question,  once  realized,  seemed 
to  arrest  him. 

"I  am  considering,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 

"Didn't  some  one  say  you  had  a  place  in  a  roof- 
garden  orchestra?" 

"That!  Oh  yes.  It  was  the  other  things  which  I 
was  considering." 

Marcia  was  silent  while  Jean  puffed  regularly  at 
his  pipe.  After  a  moment  he  said: 

"My  life — it  is  not  good.  No.  I  have  thought 
much  and  I  see  that  it  is  uncomfortable.  I  cannot 
give  myself  to  my  work.  There  are  too  many 
things  that  trouble  me.  While  I  was  in  Beverly 

73 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

I  was  used  to  having  clean  garments  once  a  week. 
It  was  agreeable,  I  do  not  deny  it.  Miss  Massam 
used  to  put  them  out  for  me.  You — do  you  put 
out  clean  clothes  for  your  brother?  Yes?  I  thought 
so.  It  is  surprising  how  women  think  to  do  these 
things.  That  is  only  one  trouble  which  distracts 
me.  There  are  others.  Sometimes  I  buy  one  dozen 
eggs.  They  are  cheaper  that  way.  You  have 
noticed?  Yes?  And  then  I  forget  where  I  have 
put  them  till  they  begin  to  smell  and  then  they  are 
no  longer  good.  Is  it  not  so?  My  room — it  is  too 
small  to  hold  everything,  especially  eggs  that  smell. 
I  throw  them  away,  but  the  smell  remains.  It  is 
not  agreeable,  no,  and  it  is  very  expensive.  Now 
what  I  wish  to  ask  you  is  this,  Miss  Rale.  What 
money  does  it  cost  you  to  rent  this  flat  and  buy 
food?  See.  I  will  be  business-like.  I  will  put  it 
down  on  paper.  So." 

While  Marcia  gave  him  the  figures  Jean  put  them 
down  on  a  soiled  envelope  which  he  drew  from  his 
pocket.  When  he  had  added  the  items  he  nodded 
gravely. 

"It  is  as  I  thought,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  good  thing 
for  a  man  to  marry,  Miss  Rale.  Yes,  I  have  proved 
it.  To  marry  a  woman  who  is  sensible  and  can  cook! 
Yes — it  is  good." 

Arthur  Rale,  opening  the  door  at  the  moment 
put  a  stop  to  the  conversation,  and  Jean  stirred  him- 
self to  give  them  music.  The  three  had  a  supper, 
cooked  by  Marcia  in  the  chafing-dish,  and  it  was 

74 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

late  before  Jean  went  away,  leaving  the  brother  and 
sister  together. 

"What  was  Jean  saying  to  you?"  asked  Rale, 
bluntly,  as  Marcia  began  to  clear  off  the  table. 

"When?" 

"You  know  when.  Look  here,  Marcia,  no  fooling. 
I  like  Jean,  but  you're  my  sister  and  I've  got  to  look 
after  you." 

Marcia  might  have  smiled,  but  she  didn't. 

"Do  you  like  him?"  persisted  Rale. 

"Of  course  I  do.  Don't  you?  Would  I  let  him 
come  here  if  I  didn't  like  him?  He  takes  my  mind 
off  things." 

"Well,  what  was  he  saying?" 

"I  don't  see  why  I've  got  to  tell  you,  and  I  won't. 
Don't  you  meddle,  Art.  What's  the  use  of  being  old 
and  ugly  if  you  can't  look  after  yourself!  There's 
a  good  deal  more  sense  in  my  asking  what  he  says  to 
you.  I  don't  like  your  hours  and  I  don't  like  your 
friends.  Hanbury  was  all  right — he's  a  man,  and  a 
great  one,  too.  I  don't  care  what  you  do  for  him.  But 
when  it  comes  to  a  lot  of  shouting,  rantinganarchists — " 

"'Sh!" 

"They're  nothing  else,  and  I  know  it.  I  don't 
suppose  Jean  has  anything  to  do  with  that,  but  he's 
leading  you  on  just  the  same." 

Arthur  turned  a  sullen  face  away  from  her.  She 
had  succeeded  in  diverting  his  thoughts,  and  he  did 
not  notice  that  her  face  kept  the  color  his  questioning 
had  raised. 

6  75 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

When  Jean  returned  to  his  hall  bedroom  he  sat 
down  to  think.  It  was  all  bed,  that  room,  and  the 
bed  was  never  fresh,  for  he  had  to  sit  on  it,  put  his 
feet  on  it,  dump  books  and  papers  on  it,  use  it  in  all 
manner  of  ways.  His  thoughts  to-night  made  a 
list  of  his  discomforts  which  he  took  as  arguments 
for  marriage.  The  thought  of  it  had  been  with  him 
ever  since  his  pay  had  been  raised  and  his  summer 
work  secured.  Mme.  Cavari  had  reassured  him  in 
regard  to  the  future.  Certainly  the  matter  was 
worth  considering.  He  thought  of  Hild,  her  pres- 
ence seeming  more  real  beside  his  memory  of  Marcia. 
Not  one  of  Hild's  beauties  escaped  his  thought  any 
more  than  Marcia's  flatness  and  brownness  had 
escaped  him  earlier.  The  thought  of  Hild  caused 
him  to  feel  a  pleasant  excitement  which  remained 
for  several  days.  At  their  termination  an  impetus 
was  given  to  him  in  the  form  of  a  letter  from  Mert 
Massam.  It  was  a  masterly  composition  in  brevity 
and  pith. 

Told  you  American  eagle  likes  to  grab  and  scoop. 
Seen  'em  out  by  Si  Watson's  fence  talking  rot. 
Better  come  hum.  MERT. 

Following  this  he  received  a  pathetic  little  note 
from  Hild  asking  if  he  was  sure  he  wanted  to  marry 
so  young  and  ignorant  a  girl  as  she.  Mrs.  Emery 
also  wrote  that  Simeon  Pierce  was  in  town,  but  was 
leaving  that  day,  and  that  Hild  had  not  seen  him. 
Jean's  comment  on  her  letter  might  not  have  pleased 

76 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

her.  "Fool  woman!"  he  breathed.  Mert  had  evi- 
dently not  been  dreaming.  Jean  sat  down  and  with 
the  assistance  of  his  pipe  attacked  the  situation. 

First — was  he  prepared  to  lose  Hild  ? 

He  didn't  suppose  it  made  much  difference  if  he 
married  Hild  or  another,  provided  the  other  was  as 
gifted,  as  healthy,  and  as  young  and  pretty  as  Hild. 
But,  his  shrewdness  speaking,  he  realized  that  Hild 
was  very  gifted,  very  healthy,  and  young  and  pretty, 
and  that  he  was  used  to  her,  and  that  he  knew  no 
one  else  now  and  had  never  known  any  one  else  at 
any  time  who  had  pleased  him  so  consistently. 
Characteristically  it  did  not  strike  him  that  even  if 
there  were  another  she  might  not  be  willing  to  marry 
him. 

No,  he  was  not  prepared  to  lose  Hild.  He  wanted 
her.  He  thought  for  a  moment  of  having  her  there 
at  his  hand,  to  kiss  if  he  liked,  to  do  with  as  he 
would,  a  woman  his  own.  Even  the  dreadful  baby 
obtruded  upon  his  thoughts  as  something  not  wholly 
obnoxious.  Of  course  women  ought  to  have  babies; 
it  was  good  for  them,  it  made  them  domestic  and 
obedient.  With  babies  and  music  and  housework 
she  wouldn't  have  time  for  any  foolishness.  That 
was  the  great  thing. 

This  question  settled,  another  took  its  place. 

Could  he  trust  her  to  wait? 

In  America,  he  began  to  see,  an  engagement  did 
not  have  the  binding  finality  of  a  German  betrothal. 
Moreover,  all  influence  was  against  him.  Suppose 

77 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

this  fellow,  the  earless  puppy,  got  hold  of  her  and 
persuaded  her  she  was  in  love  with  him!  What 
could  he  count  on  to  hold  her?  Clearly  only  posses- 
sion, and  possession  was  only  secured  by  matrimony. 

Decidedly  he  would  be  unwise  to  trust  her  to  wait. 

Having  got  so  far,  it  came  to  a  matter  of  ways  and 
means. 

Jean  searched  in  the  top  drawer  of  his  bureau, 
turned  over  piles  of  dirty  collars,  frayed  ties,  torn 
papers,  sheets  from  letters  and  music,  and  odds  and 
ends  of  all  kinds  until  he  found  his  bank-book. 
This  he  studied  with  care.  The  result  was  not 
unsatisfactory.  Not  much  there,  to  be  sure,  but 
enough  to  buy  a  little  furniture  and  still  keep  a  bit 
for  illness  or  necessity  of  any  kind.  Putting  away  the 
bank-book,  he  began  to  figure  carefully  on  a  slip  of 
dirty  paper.  He  put  down  the  items  one  below 
another,  bending  long  over  the  puzzle.  Then  he 
went  back  and  cut  down  here  and  there  till  the  total 
pleased  him.  Then  he  laid  his  pencil  aside. 

He  could  easily  leave  after  the  opera  on  Saturday 
night  and  be  back  in  time  for  his  work  on  Monday 
night.  They  could  be  married  sometime  on  Sunday 
or  early  Monday. 

That  night  he  wrote  his  plans  to  Mrs.  Emery. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  flat  which  Jean  had  selected  for  his  initial 
experiment  in  housekeeping  was  a  minute 
affair,  advertised  as  "Four  rooms  and  a  bath." 
Hild  and  he  had  spent  the  first  few  days  of  their 
marriage  in  his  boarding-house  while  they  purchased 
and  disposed  their  limited  furnishings,  and  one  warm 
spring  evening  they  moved  in. 

The  street,  which  farther  west  or  east  took  on  a 
well-to-do  air,  here  lapsed  into  a  sordidness  which 
did  not  suggest  real  poverty.  Gaily  dressed  ladies 
emerged  from  the  doors  of  numberless  apartment- 
houses,  but  the  children  who  had  gathered  in  the 
street  on  this  warm  night  were  untidy,  dirty,  even 
ragged.  Dressmakers'  signs  were  many,  and  the 
whole  toneless,  flat-faced  street  seemed  to  strive 
continually  to  disguise  and  repress  its  teeming  life, 
with  ill  success. 

A  green  dusk  was  deepening  as  Jean  let  Hild  and 
himself  into  the  house.  He  had  taken  a  flat  at  the 
top  of  the  building  to  escape  noise,  and  they  began 
to  mount  the  narrow  stairway  in  silence.  As  they 
passed  closed  doors  Hild  listened  for  the  snatches 
of  life  behind  them — a  harsh  voice  speaking  un- 
pleasant words  over  the  clashing  of  kitchen  things; 

79 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

some  one  shouting  directions  down  a  dumb-waiter 
shaft;  the  cry  of  a  child  in  a  bad  temper;  laughter, 
strident  and  high;  and  once  the  sound  of  a  woman's 
voice,  singing.  Another  key  let  them  into  their 
own  suite  and  Hild  was  at  home. 

There  was  a  tiny  square  hall,  its  walls  full  of  doors 
which  gave  on  the  rooms  of  Hild's  domain.  There 
was  a  piano  in  the  living-room  which  was  to  be  paid 
for  on  the  instalment  plan.  They  had  spent  what 
was  necessary  to  buy  a  good  instrument,  and  what 
was  left  they  divided  between  the  other  furnishings. 
Hild  had  been  given  as  wedding-presents  three  or 
four  rugs,  a  rocking-chair,  a  morris  chair,  and  a  few 
sofa  cushions  which  were  piled  now  on  a  divan  be- 
tween the  windows.  Her  household  linen,  bought 
by  her  mother  and  stitched  by  herself,  lay  in  a  cup- 
board ready  to  use. 

Jean  had  found  a  note  in  the  slot  below  their 
speaking-tube  at  the  street  door.  He  read  it  now. 
It  was  an  invitation  to  himself  and  Hild  to  come  to 
supper  with  Mme.  Cavari  that  night  after  the 
theater.  He  handed  it  to  Hild.  As  he  directed  her 
where  to  meet  him  her  eyes  rested  on  his.  This  had 
happened  before  in  the  last  few  days,  and  whenever 
it  happened  it  disturbed  Jean.  Now  he  took  her 
arms,  firm  and  round  under  her  silk  sleeves,  in  his 
grasp  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  not,  no,  certainly 
she  was  not  what  he  had  hoped  she  would  be.  The 
housewife,  all  competence  and  obedience,  was  not 
here.  To  be  sure,  she  was  only  a  girl,  and  he  had 

80 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

never  known  a  girl  before.  He  had  known  many 
women,  and  he  could  not  imagine  having  to  explain 
anything  to  one  of  them.  Hild,  unlike  them,  seemed 
to  be  constantly  looking  for  explanations.  He  did 
not  like  the  feeling  this  gave  him.  He  had  bound 
himself  to  a  larger  kind  of  child  and  would  have  to 
teach  her.  How  long  would  it  be  before  he  found 
looking  into  those  brown  eyes,  the  comfortable  sub- 
missiveness  he  wished  to  see? 

"Why  look  at  me  so?"  he  demanded.  "Mon 
Dieu!  I  forbid  it!" 

He  dropped  her  arms  and  turned  his  back  on  her. 
Then,  as  she  stood  still,  he  faced  her  again. 

"Did  you  not  marry  me?"  he  asked  her,  spreading 
out  his  hands.  > 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  answered. 

Even  now  she  could  not  realize  that  the  step  was 
finally  taken.  Against  her  wish  the  marriage-day 
had  been  fixed;  against  her  will  it  had  come.  In- 
credulous of  their  reality,  she  had  seen  her  wedding- 
garments  laid  on  a  spareroom  bed.  Shrinking,  she 
had  helped  to  unpack  and  arrange  her  wedding-gifts. 
Hating  herself,  she  had  gone  to  the  station  to  meet 
Jean,  surprised  when  she  saw  him.  With  haste  in 
which  she  seemed  to  swim,  dimly  aware  of  objects 
near  her,  the  crucial  moment  had  come  and  gone. 
When  the  train  that  bore  her  away  to  new  things 
had  begun  to  roll  faster  and  she  had  turned  her  face 
from  the  window  she  had  been  afraid  to  look  at  Jean. 

"Then,"  said  Jean,  "if  it  is  true  that  you  have 

81 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

married  me  am  I  to  be  looked  at  so?  No!  I  say 
it — no!"  He  stamped  his  foot. 

Hild  looked  down  at  her  folded  hands. 

"Is  it  for  nothing  that  I  work  to  feed  and  clothe 
you?  I  ask  you.  After  so  many  years  of  miserable 
life  I  ask  a  little  comfort.  Am  I  not  ready  to  pay 
for  it?  Do  I  not  take  you  away  from  earless  puppies 
and  foolish  women  and  give  you  this?"  He  indi- 
cated with  a  generous  sweep  of  his  arm  the  little  bare 
room.  "Do  I  not  share  with  you  all  things?  I  am 
a  genius,  a  man  of  music,  and  I  require  peace;  some 
one  to  do  the  things  I  do  not  like  to  do;  some  one 
to  talk  to  when  I  am  sad,  to  play  for  me,  to  do  what 
I  say.  You  are  my  wife  and  all  this — it  is  your  duty. 
It  is  not  your  duty  to  look  at  me  with  eyes  that  I 
remember.  No.  Understand  what  I  say." 

Hild  did  not  speak.  Jean  stamped  his  foot  again. 
"Is  it  to  a  dumb  woman  I  talk?"  he  shouted.  "Can 
you  not  look  at  me?" 

There  had  been  time  for  thought  in  the  few  days 
of  Hild's  marriage,  and  Hild,  sometimes  made  stu- 
pid by  suffering,  had  come  to  moments  when  she 
could  think.  At  one  of  these  moments  she  had 
considered  going  home.  It  had  seemed  to  her  then 
the  only  possible  decision.  To  remain  with  Jean  had 
appeared  a  horrible  kind  of  suicide.  But  other  mo- 
ments had  followed  with  other  thoughts.  She  had 
lived  her  life  with  a  woman  who  had  "gone  home." 
She  knew  what  it  meant.  It  meant  failure,  and 
failure  meant  pity,  and  pity  to  Hild  would  be  as 

82 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

vinegar  to  her  wounds.  More  pressing  than  this 
thought  came  the  appreciation  of  the  bargain  of  her 
marriage.  Jean  had  not  married  her  because  he 
loved  her.  He  had  married  her  for  definite  con- 
siderations which  she  had  tacitly  agreed  to  fulfill. 
Pride,  to  which  her  young  growth  had  been  bound, 
fixed  her  decision.  She  did  not  know  how  it  was  to 
be  done,  but  she  meant  to  please  Jean. 

She  looked  up  and,  though  her  lips  were  stiff",  she 
smiled. 

"It's  time  for  you  to  go,"  she  said.  "I'll  meet 
you  as  you  say." 

When  he  left  her  she  turned  quickly  to  her  un- 
packing. She  kept  her  hands  and  mind  busy  until 
it  was  time  to  go.  The  unfamiliar  streets  per- 
plexed her.  She  was  relieved  when  Jean  joined  her 
outside  the  theater.  She  talked  to  him  more  natu- 
rally than  she  had  been  able  to  do  since  their  mar- 
riage as  they  walked  to  Cavari's  apartment. 

Mme.  Cavari  had  something  of  a  party.  Hanbury 
was  there,  also  the  Rales.  Jean  had  told  Cavari 
the  bare  fact  of  his  marriage,  but  he  had  not  prepared 
her  for  Hild.  It  seemed  to  the  girl  that  she  stood 
alone,  stared  at,  for  a  long  time  before  Mme.  Cavari 
took  her  warmly  by  the  hand  and  led  her  into  the 
room. 

"This  is  Mme.  Kontze,"  she  said  to  Hanbury,  who 
had  come  forward.  "My  dear,  this  is  my  best 
friend,  Mr.  Paul  Hanbury." 

Hild,  looking  up,  saw  a  face  which  held  her  eyes 

83 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

raised.  She  tried  to  fix  her  mind  on  what  he  said, 
but  failed.  She  kept  only  an  impression  that  he 
had  been  very  kind,  and  that  he  watched  her  as  she 
turned  away.  She  saw  Jean  speak  to  Arthur  Rale 
and  Marcia.  Soon  Marcia  introduced  herself  to 
Hild. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  New  York  before?"  asked 
Marcia,  rather  cruelly  it  seemed  to  Hild. 

"No.     You  see,  Boston  seemed  a  long  way  to  me." 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  sorry  for  you.     That's  all." 

"I  don't  think  it  matters  much  where  you  live," 
said  Hild. 

"Oh,  don't  you!"  Marcia  laughed  unpleasantly. 
"Everything  makes  a  difference  when  you're 
wretched." 

"Does  it?"  asked  Hild,  interested,  because  here 
was  some  one  who  was  wretched,  too.  She  looked 
to  see  if  Marcia  were  really  unhappy  and  saw  the 
plain  face  before  her  clearly  for  the  first  time.  So 
the  two  women  came  to  understand  each  other  for 
a  passing  moment. 

Cavari,  later  in  the  evening,  drew  Jean  aside. 

"So  you're  married!"  she  said,  watching  Hild. 

"Yes.     It  is  true.    Why  not?" 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Eighteen!" 

"Good  God,  Jean  Kontze!    Have  you  no  heart?" 

He  turned  on  her,  exasperated. 

"What  you  mean — have  I  no  heart?" 

"Hadn't  the  child  a  mother?" 

84 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"Certainly.     She  is  a  foolish  woman." 

"You  don't  need  to  tell  me  that!" 

"I  do  not  know  what  it  is  you  mean  to  say. 
Women — they  are  peculiar.  It's  no  use  to  look  to 
them  for  sense.  I  have  found  it  so." 

"Poor  little  girl!     Poor  little  girl!" 

Jean  took  up  her  words. 

"Poor  little  girl!  What  you  talk  of?  You  say 
'Poor  little  girl'  and  she  looks  the  same!  Why 
should  I  not  marry  her?  Why  should  she  not  like  it? 
Tell  me  that." 

Cavari  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It  is  no  use  to  try  to  get  sense  from  a  woman," 
murmured  Jean. 

On  the  way  home  Hild  tried  to  find  out  something 
of  Hanbury,  but  Jean  was  not  communicative. 

"I  don't  like  Miss  Rale,"  said  Hild. 

"No?     She  is  very  ugly." 

"Her  brother  is  a  queer  boy." 

"He  likes  to  hear  me  play." 

"Jean,  what  is  Mr.  Hanbury  to  Madame  Ca- 
vari?" 

"How  can  I  tell?  Why  should  I  trouble  to  know? 
It  is  their  own  business." 

Hild,  thinking  of  her  words  and  his  answer,  was  too 
shy  to  explain  her  meaning. 

When  they  reached  their  rooms  Jean  took  out 
his  violin  to  play.  Hild  came  to  the  doorway  and 
asked,  in  a  low  voice: 

"Shall  I  unpack  your  valise?" 

85 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

He  nodded  without  looking  at  her. 

She  sighed  over  the  untidy  contents  of  the  bag. 
As  she  began  to  take  out  the  articles  one  by  one 
something  arrested  her.  It  was  the  broken  and 
faded  photograph  of  a  woman.  Hild  knew,  looking 
at  it,  that  it  was  a  picture  of  Jean's  mother. 

Suddenly  Hild  became  conscious  of  a  new  feeling, 
painful  and  sweet.  She  could  not,  for  a  moment, 
be  sure  of  it,  then,  as  she  looked  at  the  dimly  re- 
flected face  in  her  hand,  it  strengthened. 

She  was,  yes,  she  was  sorry  for  the  man  she  had 
married. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MME.  CAVARI  had  promised  that  when  Jean  had 
finished  the  symphonic  poem  on  which  he  was 
at  work  she  would  introduce  him  to  a  musical  director 
of  note  who  owed  her  a  favor.  Cavari  was  deeply 
interested  in  the  progress  of  the  composition,  but 
Hild  and  Arthur  Rale  were  the  only  two  persons 
privileged  to  actually  follow  it  in  the  process  of 
creation.  On  many  an  evening  of  that  summer 
Rale  came  and  went  unquestioned,  almost* unno- 
ticed, while  Jean  worked.  Marcia  never  came,  and 
Jean  had  not  been  to  the  Rales'  rooms  since  his 
marriage.  Hild  knew  that  Marcia  did  not  like  her. 
She  was  too  preoccupied  to  ask  herself  why. 

The  trials  of  that  summer  brought  Hild  along  the 
hard  way  from  the  "I  can't  bear  it"  of  inexperience 
to  the  "I  must  bear  it"  of  the  initiated.  Her  reso- 
lution to  adapt  her  life  to  its  conditions,  however 
difficult  they  might  be,  had  seemed  to  her  the  irre- 
sistible force  before  which  any  movable  body  must 
give  way.  She  was  humiliated  to  find  that  this  was 
not  true.  Jean's  sharp  words,  however  sternly  she 
might  prepare  herself  for  them,  sent  her  quivering 
away,  to  cry,  to  vainly  rebel,  always  to  end  by  hating 
herself  for  caring  and  for  showing  that  she  cared. 

8? 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

She  knew  what  he  wanted.  Why  in  the  name  of 
pride  could  she  not  give  it  to  him  and  keep  locked 
away  all  the  finer  sense  he  did  not  prize? 

In  the  list  of  her  difficulties  her  inexperience  in 
household  matters  had  an  important  place.  She  did 
not  know  how  to  cook,  but  if  Jean  had  been  ignorant, 
too,  she  could  have  brought  more  courage  to  the  task 
of  learning.  He,  on  the  contrary,  could  tell  her  with 
great  definiteness  just  what  was  wrong  with  her 
steak  or  pudding.  Many  a  dreadful  hour  of  that 
unthinkable  summer  was  spent  over  the  mysteries 
of  her  gas-range. 

But  worst  of  all  her  petty  worries  was  the  apply- 
ing of  their  money  to  their  needs.  She  began,  like 
many  American  girls,  without  the  least  sense  that 
money  counted  for  anything  when  exchanged  for 
what  she  wanted.  The  difference  between  a  steak 
that  cost  thirty  cents  and  a  chicken  that  cost  seventy- 
five  seemed  nothing.  In  her  desire  to  please  Jean 
she  thought  to  cater  to  his  palate  by  buying  deli- 
cacies, and,  instead,  she  brought  violent  words,  like 
a  swarm  of  hornets,  about  her  ears.  She  did  not 
forget,  but  it  was  long  before  she  gained  any  perspec- 
tive on  the  spending  of  money.  They  were  poor, 
and  the  allowance  which  Jean  dealt  out  to  her  was 
just  enough,  with  care  and  foresight,  to  feed  them 
frugally  and  pay  a  weekly  wash  and  char  woman. 
During  one  memorable  week  Hild  served  roast 
squab  on  Monday,  and  the  pair  went  meatless 
Friday  and  Saturday. 

88 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

The  weather  was  such  for  a  great  part  of  those 
bridal  months  that  it  pressed  gasping  humanity 
into  the  parks,  open  cars,  and  river-boats.  Every- 
thing in  the  tormented  city  bore  out  Hild's  idea 
that  she  lived  in  a  fevered  dream.  Most  of  the 
decent  women  had  fled  with  their  children  or  their 
ailments  to  the  sea,  the  mountains,  or  at  least 
the  suburbs,  and  in  their  place  appeared  lurid 
creatures  who  caricatured  the  latest  fashions  and 
languished  over  out -door  tables  at  popular  res- 
taurants. 

There  was  something  during  this  dreary  time 
which  kept  her  intent  on  her  life.  When  Jean 
brought  her  into  his  work,  asking  her  advice  and 
sympathy,  going  over  with  her  the  points  he  wished 
to  make,  the  obstacles  he  wished  to  overcome,  they 
stepped  at  once  over  the  borders  of  the  country 
where  they  were  exiled  and  alone,  into  a  land  where 
they  shared  freedom  and  lavish  beauty.  Then  she 
could  talk  to  him  eagerly,  naturally,  and  he  could 
meet  her,  lead  her,  win  her.  They  were,  at  such 
times,  companions  in  a  sense  which  was  wonderful 
and  new  to  Hild.  They  were  companions  traveling 
together  where  sights  and  sounds  were  of  heavenly 
import. 

Such  hours  passed,  and,  once  passed,  were  hard  to 
credit  in  the  face  of  loneliness,  bitterness,  gloom. 
Once  in  a  while  a  glance  or  word  or  the  sense 
of  a  silence  gave  Hild  hope.  She  persisted  through 
blind  discouragement  and  violent  despair  and  came 

89 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

to  have  a  spirit  of  emotional  adventure,  like  the  pa- 
tience of  a  trained  traveler. 

Mme.  Cavari  came  to  see  Hild  one  afternoon  at 
the  hour  when  Hild  was  sitting  down  for  practice. 
The  lady  glanced  about  the  room,  noting  the  scat- 
tered music,  shabby  with  use;  the  modern  piano,  the 
best  to  be  bought  for  money;  the  full  bookcase, 
apart  from  which  various  things  the  room  had  only 
a  coolness  and  neatness  to  offer  for  attraction. 
She  turned  over  the  music  that  lay  on  the  piano  and 
talked  to  Hild,  asking  questions  which  the  girl 
answered  diffidently.  Cavari  warmed  to  Jean's 
praise.  Then  she  mentioned  Hanbury. 

"He  almost  never  speaks  of  people,"  she  said. 
"He  thought  your  husband  a  genius.  He  asked  me 
a  great  deal  about  you  both." 

"I  thought  he  was  just  splendid,"  exclaimed  Hild, 
blushing  at  the  fear  that  she  had  spoken  too  warmly. 

"So  he  is,  just  that — splendid."  Mme.  Cavari 
looked  at  Hild,  and  sighed.  "Too  splendid,"  she 
added. 

"Oh!     How  can  anybody  be  too  splendid?" 

"I  mean — well,  when  you  know  him  better  you 
will  find  out  what  I  mean.  As  for  me,  you  know  I 
owe  him  everything." 

Hild  thought  that  Mme.  Cavari  did  not  look  like 
a  person  who  owed  anybody  anything.  She  longed 
to  ask  what  she  meant,  but  did  not  dare.  Mme. 
Cavari  went  on  to  say: 

"I  was  a  servant  in  a  country  hotel.  He  heard 

90 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

me  sing  and  brought  me  to  New  York.  He  sup- 
ported me  for  years,  while  I  was  studying  here  and 
abroad.  Even  that  was  misunderstood.  People 
thought  I  was  his  mistress,"  Cavari  explained  quite 
simply.  "Plenty  of  them  think  so  still." 

"How  awful!" 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter  half  so  much  as  some 
other  things.  But  it's  a  sample  of  the  kind  of  mis- 
take they  do  make  about  Paul.  He  does  a  godlike 
thing  and  they  interpret  it  as  a  commonplace  one  if 
they  can,  and  if  they  can't  they  call  him  mad." 

"Oh!" 

"Of  course  a  few  of  us  know  him.  It's  only  an- 
other way  of  saying  we  worship  him.  Can  you  play 
this,  Madame  Kontze?" 

Hild  could  and  did.  One  result  of  Jean's  exactions 
as  a  teacher  was  that  she  would  never  be  nervous 
playing  for  any  one  else. 

"My  dear  child,  you  are  a  bundle  of  surprises," 
Cavari  cried.  "You  play  far  better  than  Irma  Dene. 
You  must  become  a  professional." 

"You  see  I  have  to  play  well  for  Jean,"  Hild  ex- 
plained, putting  away  the  music. 

"I  see."  Mme.  Cavari  was  studying  Hild  with  a 
good  deal  of  interest.  "What  else  do  you  do  for 
Jean,  and  do  you  do  everything  as  well  as  you  play 
Bach?" 

"Oh  dear  no."  Hild  blushed.  "If  I  could  cook 
as  well  as  I  can  play  the  piano  I  should  be  perfectly 
happy,"  she  finished,  earnestly. 

7  91 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"I  see,"  repeated  Cavari.     "Do  you  sing,  too?" 
"Oh  no — that  is,  I  have  no  method." 
Cavari  rose  and  took  Hild's  hands,  one  ia  each  of 
her  own. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  "but  I  by  no  means 
wish  to  lose  sight  of  you,  my  dear.  As  soon  as 
*  Perdita '  is  over  I  am  going  to  my  house  at  Annan- 
ville.  I  hope  you'll  visit  me  there.  Will  you  ?  That's 
right.  Whether  Jean  can  come  with  you  or  not, 
remember.  By  the  way,  I  met  a  Beverly  boy  the 
other  day  who  says  he  knows  you.  My  lawyer  in- 
troduced him,  and  seems  to  think  well  of  him.  His 
name  is  Pierce." 
"Simeon." 

"  I  expect  so.  You  will  talk  to  Jean  about  that  visit  ?" 
She  left  Hild  pleased  and  happy.  The  prospect  of 
the  visit  Cavari  had  spoken  of  was  too  delightful  to 
look  upon  for  very  long.  It  lent  romance  to  the 
present,  and  as  Hild  stepped  about  her  rooms,  busy 
with  her  evening  tasks,  she  could  see  hope  in  the  very 
saucepans.  In  her  enthusiasm  she  burned  the  po- 
tatoes and  put  too  much  vinegar  in  the  salad,  and 
Jean  protested  in  voluble  French,  but  so  persistent 
was  the  influence  of  her  mood  that  she  smiled  on  him 
shyly  and  turned  her  attention  to  making  him  a 
super-excellent  cup  of  coffee. 

In  July  "Perdita"  was  taken  off  for  a  time.  Jean 
had  engaged  to  conduct  a  roof-garden  orchestra 
during  the  two  months  or  so  of  rest  that  Cavari 
wanted.  Then  "Perdita"  was  to  be  resumed. 

92 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

One  morning  in  August  an  unfortunate  chance 
brought  Hild  face  to  face  with  Simeon  Pierce.  She 
had  been  marketing.  Her  arms  were  full  of  parcels 
and  her  face  was  more  flushed  than  was  comfortable 
or  becoming.  She  shook  hands  with  him,  rebelling 
at  all  these  circumstances.  He  would,  she  was  sure, 
write  home  to  Beverly  that  he  had  seen  her  and  that 
she  looked  "awfully  used  up,"  and  there  would  some- 
where in  the  letter  be  an  allusion  to  "that  Kontze." 

Simeon  had  been  hurrying  to  catch  an  express 
train  at  the  "L"  station,  but  he  took  Hild's  parcels 
from  her  and  walked  with  her  down  the  street  where 
she  lived. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  come  to  see  you  sometime," 
said  Simeon. 

Hild  thought  of  a  lamp  in  her  sitting-room  which 
cast  a  pink  light,  and  she  thought  of  a  muslin  dress 
she  had  never  worn. 

"Come  along  if  you  want  to,"  she  said.  "I'm 
going  to  Annan ville  to-morrow  to  visit  Madame 
Cavari." 

"Are  you?  That's  funny.  I'm  going  down  to 
Everett's  for  Sunday.  He  lives  near  her,  I  think. 
Say,  Hild,  can  I  come  to-night?" 

"If  you  want  to." 

As  Hild  mounted  the  long  stairs — there  was 
plenty  of  time  to  think  on  those  stairs — a  sense  of 
guilt  deepened  in  her  mind.  She  had  engaged  to 
have  a  secret  from  Jean,  for  she  found  that  she  did 
not  dare  tell  him  that  Simeon  was  coming.  She 

93 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

opened  the  door  with  her  latch-key  and,  hearing 
the  sound  of  Jean's  violin,  she  hung  her  hat  in  the 
hall  and  went  to  the  kitchen. 

When  she  came  into  the  living-room,  carrying  the 
midday  meal,  Jean  was  unapproachable.  He  made 
her  put  down  his  food  and  eat  her  own  while  he 
worked  on,  and  then  while  she  was  putting  her 
kitchen  to  rights  he  took  his  meal.  He  worked,  ab- 
sorbed, the  entire  day,  but  just  before  supper  he 
called  her  into  the  room  and  showed  her,  with  ex- 
cited eyes,  a  page  of  music.  "You  will  copy  it  for 
me  to-night?"  he  asked.  "Ah,  Hild,  it  is  going  to  be 
sweet — the  singing  to  ears  that  will  hear.  And  you 
will  be  there — yes — and  you  will  know  you  are  the 
wife  of  a  great  man.  Listen" — he  caught  up  his 
violin  and  played  to  her,  watching  her  smile  and 
bend  toward  him,  entranced.  "It  is  great — yes?" 
he  cried.  "It  will  hold  them — yes?"  Then  his  ex- 
pression changed,  and  he  came  nearer  to  her,  looking 
down  at  her  young  sweetness.  He  put  his  arms 
around  her,  and  kissed  her  quickly  where  the  curve 
of  her  neck  vanished  into  the  low  collar  of  her  dress. 

She  moved  about  him  that  evening,  waiting  on 
him  with  shrinking  care.  For  his  mood  was  the  one 
she  dreaded.  He  caught  her  hands  and  kissed  them, 
laughing  at  her  dismay  when  he  made  her  drop  a  dish 
she  carried.  He  made  her  sit  on  his  knee  and  would 
not  let  her  go,  though  the  coffee  was  growing  cold. 
He  was  roughly  affectionate,  and  mussed  her  fresh 
linen  gown  which  she  had  been  at  pains  to  iron  the 

94 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

night  before.  She  resisted  in  vain,  for  he  liked 
to  hold  her  while  she  tried  again  and  again  to  leave 
him.  He  was  like  a  small  boy  teasing  a  kitten,  and 
Hild's  womanly  dignity  was  injured.  She  was  shy 
of  her  husband,  and  the  frame  of  mind  which  made 
her  seem  all  his — as  much  as  his  watch  chain — was 
inexplicable  to  her.  She  was  not  all  his.  She  knew 
it.  What  he  won  he  could  have  and  keep;  what  he 
had  not  won  she  did  not  mean  to  give  up  lightly. 
If  he  sensed  it  some  day  and  chose  to  go  in  search 
of  it — even  then  it  was  hers  to  give  or  keep. 

When  at  last  he  left  her  for  his  night's  work  she 
was  out  of  temper  and  tired.  She  liked  him  better 
when  he  scolded  her.  To  scold  her,  she  had  come  to 
tell  herself,  was  within  his  rights,  since  she  had 
undertaken  to  please  him.  But  to  treat  her  as  if 
she  were  a  pet  dog,  to  fondle  or  curse,  was  not  within 
his  rights.  To  put  it  out  of  her  mind  she  sat  down  to 
copy  the  score,  and  this  was  how  Simeon  found  her. 
She  had  forgotten  to  change  her  dress  or  even  to 
smooth  her  hair,  but  she  was  brilliantly  pretty,  a 
Hild  at  once  different  from  the  old  Hild,  and  a  finer 
presentment  of  her.  He  looked  at  her  again,  and 
then  turned  his  eyes  away  for  very  shame  at  his  own 
emotion. 

Up  to  their  meeting  this  morning  they  had  last 
seen  each  other  on  the  spring  night  when  Simeon 
had  used  all  his  wit  and  his  passion  to  persuade  Hild 
to  break  her  engagement.  They  remembered  that 
evening  now.  Her  hand,  crushed  and  hot,  had  lain 

95 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

in  his.  She  had  left  him  suddenly,  as  if  she  feared 
him,  running  from  him  up  the  walk  and  into  the 
house.  He  had  never  seen  her  alone  since  then 
until  to-night.  To-night,  for  Simeon,  was  too  late. 

"I  can't  believe  that  you're  married,"  he  said, 
brusquely. 

Hild  laughed,  glancing  around  the  room. 

"Have  you  seen  Chloe  lately?"  she  asked. 

"No." 

"You  used  to  go  often  enough." 

"Oh!  that — that  was  because — " 

"Why?" 

"You  know,  Hild." 

"No,  I  don't."  Then,  understanding  him,  Hild 
bent  her  head  over  her  work.  She  did  not  know  how 
to  break  the  silence  that  followed  her  words.  At 
last  she  said,  "Are  you  getting  on,  Simeon — your 
work,  I  mean?" 

"Yes,  well  enough." 

"Oh,  what  a  way  to  talk!    As  if  you  didn't  care!" 

"Maybe  I'll  care  some  day.  Don't  you  worry 
about  that,  Hild.  Only —  Say,  Hild,  are  you 
happy?" 

As  she  looked  at  him  she  was  suddenly  ashamed. 
Perhaps  her  marriage  had  educated  her  somewhat, 
for  she  began  to  understand  what  the  losing  of  her 
meant  to  Simeon.  The  knowledge  was  wonderful, 
and  she  sat,  silent,  regarding  it  with  wide  eyes.  Her 
tremor  had  nothing  to  do  with  Simeon.  Something 
big  and  splendid  was  in  sight,  something  she  might 

96 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

conceivably  experience.  But  Simeon  did  not  under- 
stand that  this  was  all  she  felt. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  repeated. 

Hild  wished  passionately  to  say  "Yes,"  so  that  he 
should  believe  her.  She  knew  that  he  meant  every- 
thing that  could  be  implied  by  the  question.  And 
he  had  made  clear  to  her  how  far  from  such  happiness 
she  was. 

"What  a  funny  question!"  said  Hild.     "Of  course 

I» 
am. 

She  knew  that  he  read  into  her  words  a  meaning 
they  did  not  hold.  He  saw  that  her  marriage  was  a 
yoke,  and  he  went  on  to  suppose  that  marriage  with 
him  would  have  been  something  better.  She  hur- 
ried to  say,  "I'm  awfully  proud  of  Jean." 

."Ah!     Proud!" 

"Yes,  proud."     Hild  raised  a  defiant  head. 

"What's  the  use  of  being  proud?  Oh,  Hild, 
Hild!" 

Hild  gave  him  a  despairing  glance. 

"If  I'd  thought  you'd  have  been  so  horrid — "  she 
threw  out. 

"I'll  go  if  you  want." 

"I  think  you  better." 

"Hild!  If  we  were  only  back  in  Beverly.  Or 
else — if  I  could  forget  the  shadows  on  the  grass — 
and  your  white  dress." 

But  Hild  looked  at  him  with  clear  eyes. 

"Oh,  you'll  forget,"  she  said.  "It's  no  use. 
Only — I  am  sorry.  Really  I  am,  Simeon." 

97 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

He  took  her  hand  and  while  he  looked  at  her  he 
said: 

"Just  think.  I  could  pick  you  up  and  carry  you 
away.  It  would  be  easy.  But  I  mustn't.  I've  got 
to  say  good-by." 

"Are  you  going?" 

She  held  her  breath,  listening  till  the  door  closed 
behind  him.  Then  she  said  aloud: 

"I've  got  to  tell  Jean.     I've  got  to." 


CHAPTER  IX 

HILD  had  been  counting  for  weeks  on  her  visit 
to  Cavari.  It  had  been  arranged  most  easily 
in  a  second  visit  of  the  singer's.  Jean  had  been 
present  and  at  the  suggestion  Hild's  glance  had  tried 
her  own  case,  going  for  evidence  to  his  face,  and  the 
verdict  given  carelessly  in  a,  "Yes,  if  she  wishes," 
came  with  all  the  effectiveness  of  a  relief  from 
suspense. 

Since  then — until  the  letter  had  come  settling  the 
date  for  the  visit — Hild  had  not  spoken  of  it,  so 
greatly  had  she  feared  it  would  not  come  about. 
She  had  handed  the  letter  to  Jean  to  read,  and  he  had 
done  so,  and  she  had  considered  the  matter  settled 
and  had  gone  forward  with  her  plans  until,  as  has 
been  seen,  the  evening  of  her  departure  arrived. 
She  wondered  now  how  she  could  have  endured  the 
stretch  of  summer  which  remained  without  this 
break  and  change.  She  even  began  to  wonder  how  she 
was  to  find  courage  to  come  back.  The  prospect  of  a 
week's  propinquity  with  Cavari,  seven  perfect  days 
of  rest  and  freedom,  all  that  time  in  which  she  might 
completely  put  aside  the  strain  and  stress  of  a  life 
where  nothing  spontaneous  must  encroach,  this 
seemed  to  her  the  respite  without  which  she  could 

99 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

not  have  gone  on  a  moment  longer.  Simeon's  hand- 
prints on  her  soul  only  intensified  the  desire  to  get 
away,  to  know  again  what  it  was  to  be  unassail- 
ably  alone  within  four  walls. 

She  packed  her  trunk,  taking  for  the  first  time  a 
pleasure  in  the  sight  of  two  pretty  unworn  evening 
gowns.  There  were  numerous  small  activities  to 
keep  her  moving  about  her  room  so  that  there  should 
be  nothing  left  to  do  on  the  eve.  Jean  had  said 
she  might  go — he  had  not  seemed  to  care  much 
whether  she  went  or  not.  But  she  must  certainly 
not  worry  him  with  her  preparations.  She  struggled 
valiantly  over  her  trunk  to  close  it.  She  would  not 
have  liked  to  ask  Jean  to  help  her. 

Too  excited  to  sleep,  she  exchanged  her  day  gown 
for  a  loose  muslin  negligee  and,  looking  about  to  see 
that  all  was  complete,  she  saw  her  purse  lying  on  the 
bureau.  She  opened  it  and  counted  the  money. 
Six  dollars  and  a  quarter!  It  was  house  money  and 
she  could  not  use  it  for  her  trip.  Last  week  she  had 
managed  the  accounts  on  less  than  usual,  and  had 
returned  to  Jean  proudly  a  dollar  and  a  half.  She 
had  been  pleased.  Of  course  he  would  have  to 
give  her  her  fare  to  Annanville  and  enough  to  tip 
the  servants.  She  had  forgotten  that.  It  would 
be  quite  expensive,  but  she  could  make  it  up  some- 
how. 

As  she  mused  she  heard  Jean  at  the  door.  She 
knew  so  well  just  what  he  would  do  that  her  hearing 
detected  the  pause  in  the  hall  for  the  casting  off  of  his 

100 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

hat,  and  then  the  scratch  of  a  match  as  he  set  alight 
his  cigarette.  She  could  hear  him  cross  the  living- 
room,  and  she  knew  he  sat  down  at  the  little  table 
which  was  spread  for  him  with  his  late  repast,  which 
she  rarely  shared  with  him.  She  would  wait  a  little, 
and  then  she  would  go  in  and  speak  to  him  about  the 
money.  It  was  a  better  time  than  in  the  morning, 
she  knew. 

She  began  to  take  down  her  hair,  plaiting  it  in  two 
long  braids.  Even  she  could  see  how  childlike  her 
face  showed  between  her  two  bands  of  hair.  She 
was  pretty — so  pretty  that  Hild,  who  was  not  a  vain 
girl,  was  innocently  struck  by  her  own  prettiness. 
Then  she,  not  so  innocently,  yielded  to  a  sense  of 
resentment  that  there  was  no  one  to  please  with  it. 
Jean  would  have  found  her  as  satisfying,  she  believed, 
if  she  had  been  coarse-skinned  and  dumpy.  If  she 
had  been  coarse-skinned  and  dumpy  maybe  she 
would  have  been  a  better  cook,  and  then  he  certainly 
would  have  liked  her  better.  She  didn't  think  he 
often  looked  at  her  at  all — he  looked  over  her  or  on 
her,  but  never  at  her  with  all  his  seeing  soul. 

She  was  nervous  and  frightened,  though  she  did 
not  admit  it  to  herself.  She  had  never  before  had 
to  ask  Jean  for  money  for  any  personal  needs.  A 
small  sum  given  her  by  her  mother  on  her  wedding- 
day,  and  only  exhausted  lately,  had  served  every 
purpose. 

At  last  she  could  postpone  the  moment  no  longer. 
Jean  would  have  finished  his  supper  and  perhaps 

JOI 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

begin  to  play,  when  it  would  be  too  late.  She  ex- 
erted her  will,  and  expelled  her  own  person  abruptly 
into  the  room  where  Jean  sat,  his  mouth  full,  his  coat 
and  waistcoat  removed,  bent  on  the  business  of  re- 
lieving his  hunger.  On  the  table  beside  him  lay  a 
large  cloth-bound  volume,  and  Hild,  looking  at  it 
in  sudden  apprehension,  saw  that  it  was  a  collec- 
tion of  Tchaikovsky's  symphonies,  for  which  he  had 
longed  yearned.  She  had  yearned  for  the  book,  too, 
but  to-night  she  hated  the  sight  of  it.  She  knew 
it  made  the  task  before  her  more  difficult. 

She  came  slowly  toward  him  and,  facing  him  across 
the  very  table  on  which  Simeon's  head  had  lain  two 
hours  ago,  she  sat  down. 

"Jean,  you  know  I'm  going  to  Annanville  to- 
morrow." 

He  stopped  eating  and  looked  at  her. 

"And  you  will  have  to  give  me  five  dollars,  I'm 
afraid." 

He  had  forgotten  all  about  it — she  saw  that.  It 
was  like  him  to  forget.  His  mind  was  full  of  his 
music — he  applied  every  part  of  his  mentality  to  it. 
Only  when  he  was  tired,  unfit  for  work,  or  in  odd 
moments  between  the  laying  down  and  the  taking  up 
of  his  unvarious  pursuits,  did  he  have  time  for  her 
affairs. 

"Five  dollars?"  He  looked  at  her  a  moment  and 
then,  waving  his  hand  with  finality,  "No,"  he  said, 
and  put  a  huge  portion  of  bread  and  cheese  between 
his  teeth. 

1 02 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

Hild  knew  that  she  was  paling.  His  short  word 
appalled  her.  There  was  no  telling  him  what  it 
meant  to  her.  Even  if  she  could  tell  him,  he  would 
not  care.  It  did  not  matter  to  him  what  she  felt. 
He  did  not  love  her  nor  she  him,  and  so  he  had  noth- 
ing to  lose.  He  could  go  on  demanding  service  from 
her  just  the  same,  whatever  rebellion  raged  within 
her.  If  he  had  loved  her  she  would  then  have  had 
some  power  to  match  his.  Her  pain  would  have  been 
his  pain.  He  did  not  care! 

"Madame  Cavari  is  expecting  me.  We  must  not 
offend  her,"  she  said,  slowly,  achieving  calmness  as 
by  a  miracle. 

"I  have  the  money  for  a  telegram,"  said  Jean. 

"Then  what  shall  I  wire?" 

"What  you  like — truth  or  lies.  A  woman  can 
always  lie." 

"Why  do  you  refuse  me — you  told  me  I  might 

» 
go— 

"Did  I?  How  can  I  remember?  I  have  not  the 
money.  I  saw  the  symphonies  and  I  had  enough  to 
buy  them,  so  I  did,  and  now — you  see!"  He  showed 
her  the  small  silver  he  carried  in  his  pocket,  letting  it 
fall  with  the  sound  of  metal  on  wood.  A  copper 
penny  rolled  across  the  table  into  her  lap. 

"My  trunk  is  packed  and  locked,"  said  Hild,  and 
when  no  answer  came  to  her  words  she  got  up  and 
moved  away.  It  was  impossible  to  face  him  longer. 
She  wanted  to  snatch  the  food  away  from  him,  she 
wanted  to  lay  violent  hands  on  the  book  of  music,  she 

103 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

wanted  to  tell  him  she  hated  him  and  would  not  sub- 
mit to  him  a  moment  longer.  But  the  habit  of 
silencing  her  impulses  held  her,  and  when  she  came 
back  to  his  side  she  was  angrier  than  before,  with  an 
anger  that  thought  and  schemed. 

He  had  finished  his  supper  and  rose.  She  brought 
him  his  slippers,  and  he  went  to  his  fiddle,  fingering 
it,  but  not  playing.  She  took  the  dishes  out  to  the 
kitchen  on  a  tray,  and  washed  the  plate  he  had  used. 
Then,  to  his  apparent  surprise,  she  came  back. 

"I  am  going  to-morrow,"  she  said  from  the  door. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiling.  Her  color 
failed. 

"I  thought  I'd  tell  you,"  she  added. 

He  went  on  fingering  the  instrument. 

"Women — they  say  these  things.  They  think 
they  mean  them,"  Hild  heard  through  the  twanging 
of  a  string. 

"Well,  I  mean  it,"  said  Hild,  "and  I've  got  some- 
thing else  to  tell  you.  Simeon  Pierce  was  here 
to-night." 

Jean  was  arrested  by  this.  She  was  devilishly  glad 
to  see  him  turn  on  her. 

"The  puppy,  the  earless  puppy?  You  tell  me 
so?" 

Hild  made  no  answer.     She  stood  her  ground. 

"He  came — and  you  turned  him  out — yes?" 

"He  came  because  I  told  him  he  might." 

"The  girl  jokes,"  said  Jean. 

"You  can  say  what  you  like  and  think  what  you 
104 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

like.  He  came — I  told  him  he  could.  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  tell  you." 

For  a  moment  Hild  thought  Jean  would  throw  his 
violin  down.  But  he  laid  it  carefully  on  the  piano 
before  his  trembling  hands  clutched  his  head.  The 
words  she  could  follow  stirred  her  temper  high. 

"Shall  I  be  forced  to  lock  you  into  a  room?"  he 
asked  her,  coherently,  at  last.  "Is  it  thus  you  keep 
your  place?  Yes!  I  am  to  work,  so,  and  earn 
money,  and  you  are  to  sit  at  home  and  talk  to  young 
men.  It  is  not  for  this  I  married.  No.  I  shall 
know  how  to  prevent  it.  Yes." 

"How?" 

Jean  laughed.  "You  think  I  will  not  find  a  way? 
I  will  tell  you  one  thing.  I  am  a  man,  and  you  are  a 
woman,  and  no  woman  in  all  the  world  can  treat  me 
as  you  think  you  can.  It  may  be  that  I  was  mis- 
taken to  marry  you.  It  may  be  that  you  do  not 
know  the  business  of  being  a  wife.  But  you  are  a 
woman,  and  you  can  be  taught.  I  am  a  man  and  I 
know  how  to  teach  you." 

He  put  a  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  as  he 
did  so  he  looked  at  her.  She  met  his  eyes  fairly  with 
her  hard  and  angry  glance.  He  had  managed  to 
rouse  every  fierce  feeling  of  which  she  was  capable. 
A  sigh  sounded  on  her  lips,  telling  better  than  any 
word  the  revulsion  of  her  spirit  at  his  touch.  Even 
then  he  spoke  on,  scarcely  seeing  or  hearing  her. 

"And  you  will  go  away — yes?  And  I  am  to  be 
housemaid  and  cook  in  four  empty  rooms?  I  mar- 

105 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

ried  for  this?  That  my  wife  should  go  and  pay 
visits,  and  I  should  stay  at  home  and  work.  I 
thought  you  began  to  see.  I  thought — " 

Suddenly  he  stopped  short  in  his  speech.  A 
quiver  of  expression  had  lighted  Hild's  face  so 
plainly  that  even  Jean  saw  the  hate  and  fear 
in  it. 

"Oh!"  she  said.     "Oh!    Take  your  hand  away." 

She  straightened  her  freed  shoulder  and  spoke, 
while  he  watched  her,  words  she  had  not  known  were 
hers  to  speak. 

"How  dare  you!  How  dare  you  speak  to  me  so!" 
she  demanded.  "Aren't  you  afraid  to?  Do  you 
know  anything — anything  at  all?  Well,  I'll  just  tell 
you!  I  married  you  because  I  was  so  young  and 
silly  that  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing.  I  might 
have  fallen  in  love — you  never  seem  to  think  of  that. 
I've  never  even  heard  you  speak  of  love.  There  is 
such  a  thing,  just  the  same,  and  you've  put  it  out  of 
my  life  for  ever  and  ever.  I'm  only  just  beginning  to 
learn  what  it  means.  Don't  you  think  any  woman 
hates  the  man  who  does  that?  You  took  me  when 
anybody  would  have  done  as  well.  You  never 
thought  of  my  side  of  it.  You've  punished  me  over 
and  over  for  my  foolishness,  as  if  it  were  sin.  I've 
put  up  with  everything,  and  tried  to  be  brave  and 
tried  to  do  my  part  through  it  all.  But  do  you  know 
how  I've  felt?  Why,  there've  been  times  when  you 
came  into  the  room  when  I  wanted  to  kill  you  for  it. 
There've  been  times  when  I  could  have  kissed  the 

106 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

door  that  shut  you  out.  I've  let  you  kiss  me  when 
I'd  rather  you'd  kicked  me.  And  you've  never  even 
seen  a  fraction  of  it.  You've  believed  I  belonged  to 
you!  Do  I?  I'll  work  for  you,  but  as  long  as  I  live 
I'll  never  pretend  to  love  you,  and  if  you  come  near 
me  you'll  always  know  I'm  hating  you  and  wishing 
we  were  both  dead!" 

Only  when  the  words  were  out  had  she  time  to  be 
frightened.  She  had  shattered  something,  and  the 
sharp  fragments  lay  between  them,  too  dangerous  to 
cross.  She  could  see  him  more  plainly  than  she  had 
ever  seen  him  before.  She  mistook  the  expression 
on  his  face  for  anger.  It  was  not  anger;  he  could 
not  have  named  the  emotion,  for  it  was  new  and 
mixed  with  much  that  he  did  not  understand.  Yet 
through  it  all  she  was  his  woman  and  it  was  intoler- 
able that  she  should  defy  him. 

"So!"  he  said,  quietly.  "This — it  is  the  way  you 
feel!" 

He  turned  away  and  sat  down  on  the  piano  stool, 
looking,  somewhat  vacantly,  at  the  window.  Then 
he  picked  up  his  riddle  and  without  glancing  at 
Hild  he  spoke,  not  wholly  to  her: 

"You  say  you  are  not  mine.  Is  that  not  foolish? 
If  you  go  away,  where  is  your  life  ?  You  were  a  child. 
I  took  you;  I  married  you;  I  have  taught  you  to 
think  and  to  be  careful.  I  could  leave  you — I 
could  go  away  with  my  violin  and  a  little  money,  and 
should  I  remember  you?  No.  Very  soon  you 
would  be  nothing.  But  you !  Only  one  other  thing 

8  107 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

can  make  you  not  mine.  If  you  belong  to  another. 
And  shall  I  let  another  take  you?  No.  It  is  always 
the  same  with  women.  My  mother — I  saw  her  live 
and  die.  My  father,  he  did  not  love  her — oh  no. 
She  worked  for  him,  eh — but  she  worked  for  him! 
He  did  not  care  when  she  died — except — she  used  to 
listen  to  his  music.  I  can  remember  that  he  beat  her 
sometimes.  And  yet  when  I  asked  her  to  come  away 
with  me  she  laughed  and  she  told  me,  'Should  I  be 
happier?  Jean,  shall  I  change  suffering  for  that 
which  is  worse?'  You  see,  to  give  up  she  could  not. 
She  could  only  die.  I've  seen  women  since,  and  I 
do  not  think  women  are  often  happy.  No,  the  happy 
ones  are  they  who  work  for  men  or  for  children. 
Your  mother — is  she  happy?  Where  is  her  worry? 
Why  is  she  not  ?  Because  she  is  a  woman  without  a 
man.  I  married  you,  it  is  true — and  you  are  young — 
so!  You  might  have  married  some  one  else?  That 
also  is  true,  and  you  might  have  married  a  man  who 
would  spoil  you,  make  of  you  what  you  are  not — a 
parasite — one  who  lives  on  others'  work.  And  you 
might  have  had  fine  clothes  like  rich  men's  mis- 
tresses. Ah  yes,  and  you  might  have  had  money  to 
go  to  Europe.  I  have  seen  such  women  there. 
But  I — I  do  not  think  those  women  count.  I  do  not 
think  they  are  the  happy.  I  think  my  mother  took 
more  out  of  life  than  they.  It  is  the  way  for  a 
woman  to  be  great,  and  it  is  not  the  way  for  a  man. 
I — for  me — eternal  work,  it  is  what  I  want.  I  do 
not  believe  in  God — your  God  with  the  long  white 

1 08 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

beard  I  saw  in  your  mother's  Bible.  No,  I  believe 
in  something  great;  and  the  beauty  in  me  that  cries 
to  be  sung  is  just  a  part  of  it,  and  not  to  give  it  out — 
that  is  sin,  and  sin  brings,  not  your  hell,  but  eternal 
death.  The  human  flesh  of  me — that  needs  food  and 
care.  So  far  you  have  meant  that.  To-night,  some- 
how, you  seem  more.  You  touch  that  other  part. 
There  is  music  in  you,  too,  and  you  have  something 
to  give  to  me.  Even  so  you  cannot  give  it  if  you 
shirk.  You  cannot  give  it  if  you  are  less  than  a 
woman.  How  should  you?  You  must  be  willing 
to  suffer.  How  else  can  you  learn.  Have  I  not 
suffered — the  pains  of  the  man — the  artist?  I  have 
been  hungry — I  have  been  cold — I  have  slept  in  the 
parks  in  London  night  after  night.  I  have  played 
my  fiddle  in  the  streets.  I  have  taken  my  sleep  in 
low  dens  side  by  side  with  men  who  were  no  men — 
fallen  beasts.  I  have  seen  my  mother  die  in  pain, 
and  seen  another  take  her  place  who  sold  her  crucifix 
to  buy  a  glass  necklace.  I  have  been  cheated  and 
mocked  and  scorned.  My  genius  has  been  like  a 
naked  child  I  could  not  protect.  Life  has  been  grim 
— yet  out  of  it  all  I  have  made  music.  And  now  I 
come  to  a  place  where  the  future  has  its  brightness, 
and  I  bring  you  into  my  life.  Well,  I  did  not  think 
of  you  much — no — it  is  true.  Life  is  not  easy  for 
women — why  should  it  be  easy  for  you  ?  You  must 
surfer  by  some  man,  or  you  are  no  woman.  Why  not 
me?  Would  it  be  better  to  cover  up  hard  things 
by  pretty  words?  Did  you  mean  when  you  married 

109 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

me  that  you  would  do  your  duty  as  long  as  it  was 
pleasant?  So?" 

He  had  spoken  in  French,  and  so  rapidly  that 
Hild  could  hardly  follow  him.  But  she  understood. 

"Go  to  bed!"  he  commanded  her  as  once  before. 
"For  me— I  will  think." 

Before  she  turned  away  he  looked  at  her,  searching 
out  by  a  new  light  the  Hild  who  was  not  his.  Con- 
fused by  what  he  found,  as  if  he  had  discovered  in 
himself  something  new  and  unreckoned  with,  he 
raised  his  violin  to  his  chin.  Companioned  so,  he 
voiced  what  was  in  his  heart,  and  Hild,  hearing  it, 
knew  that  he  too  had  faced  desolation  and  vivid  suf- 
fering, perhaps  greater  than  her  own.  Once  he  came 
into  her  room  and  looked  at  her  as  she  lay  on  the  bed, 
and  her  closed  eyelids  quivered  while  he  stood  so 
near. 

In  the  morning  she  took  the  money  that  was  in  her 
purse  and  went,  as  she  had  arranged,  to  join  Cavari's 
party  at  Annanville. 


CHAPTER  X 

DURING  the  first  few  days  of  Hild's  absence 
Jean  worked  with  unexampled  zeal.  Then, 
quite  suddenly,  a  day  came  when  he  could  work  no 
more. 

He  was  tired,  defenselessly  tired,  and  he  knew  the 
dreadful  mood  with  which  the  artist  pays  for  his 
hours  of  inspiration.  It  was  then  he  had  to  submit 
to  a  bombardment  of  hostile  thoughts.  When  they 
had  made  an  opening  in  the  ramparts  of  his  egoism 
they  poured  in,  besetting  him,  taking  possession  of 
his  mind  and  excluding  everything  else. 

First  came  a  regiment  of  adverse  circumstances  led 
by  discouragement. 

Jean  had  not  succeeded  with  his  orchestra,  and 
on  that  very  evening  the  management  had  pointed 
out  that  an  improvement  was  desirable.  He  loathed 
the  popular  music  he  had  to  render;  he  despised  the 
devices  for  catching  the  attention  of  minds  reduced 
to  silliness  by  the  strain  of  a  hot  summer;  he  suffered 
by  his  third-rate  players,  and  by  the  badly  trained, 
often  untrue,  voices  of  the  singers.  His  soul  was 
given  over  to  his  new  composition  which  he  was  con- 
structing beneath  the  halo  of  all  he  held  sacred. 
The  music  of  the  allegro  Hild  had  finished  copying 

in 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

just  before  her  departure,  and  it  had  seemed  partly 
her  own.  But  the  scherzo  had  not  been  touched. 
To-night  he  thought  it  never  would  be. 

But  he  must — he  must  gain  a  hearing!  He  would 
no  longer  endure  to  have  his  genius  slighted.  For  the 
moment  it  had  flown,  deserted  him,  leaving  him  so 
horribly  alone  that  he  laid  his  head  between  his  hands 
and  sobbed.  It  was  late,  and  the  rumble  of  traffic 
was  half  hushed  and  the  desolation  of  the  room  com- 
plete. There  lay  his  violin  on  the  top  of  Hild's 
piano — he  could  not  touch  it.  About  him  closed  in 
the  walls  of  his  loneliness  that  seemed  to  cry  for 
Hild.  He  knew  now  that  for  days  he  had  missed  her 
acutely.  Was  it  that  she  made  him  comfortable? 
No.  He  raised  his  head  at  the  amazing  discovery. 
It  was  her  presence  he  desired.  Lately,  working 
far  into  the  night,  he  had  formed  a  habit  of  going 
sometimes  to  look  at  her  as  she  lay  asleep.  If  she 
were  there  now,  her  white  arms  flung  out,  her  head 
turned  away,  the  thick  warm  hair  lying  on  her 
shoulders,  would  not  the  space  he  called  home  fill 
suddenly  with  invisible  charm?  "I  am  a  fool,"  he 
pronounced  as  a  swift  assent  defeated  his  will  to 
answer  "No."  He  turned  aghast  upon  himself, 
unaccustomed  to  the  ordeal  of  facing  enemies 
within. 

"Hild!"  He  said  her  name,  and  at  his  will  she 
rose  before  him — not  the  Hild  of  flesh  and  blood,  but 
that  other  stirring,  beckoning  being  who  had  faced 
him  from  the  doorway  on  the  night  when  she  defied 

112 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

him.  Was  that  really  Hild?  An  overmastering  cu- 
riosity arose  in  him  to  know.  Had,  somehow,  a 
false  image  been  cast  between  him  and  her  visible 
presence,  and  had  he  mistaken  it  for  her,  and  would 
she  never  again  assume  that  exquisite  significance? 
When  she  came  back  to  him,  was  once  more  familiarly 
his  wife  and  servitor,  would  she  be  merely  a  woman  of 
many  graces  or  would  she — his  heart  stirred  to  a  high 
excitement  at  the  thought — would  she  be  still,  un- 
questionably, this  newly  conceived  Hild,  whose  ab- 
sence was  turning  into  an  active  torment?  Some 
one  must  answer  him — answer  him  at  once — or  he 
would  go  mad. 

Restless,  he  went  into  the  street  and  turned 
toward  the  river.  Before  he  had  walked  far  a  man 
touched  him  on  the  arm.  It  was  Arthur  Rale,  who 
explained  that  he  had  been  on  his  way  to  Jean's  flat. 
The  two  found  a  bench  and  sat  down,  looking  upon 
the  water  which  lay  dark  and  blue,  with  here  and 
there  a  ripple  of  yellow  light  over  it.  There  was  no 
crowd  at  this  late  hour,  but  a  man  and  woman,  cling- 
ing to  each  other,  passed  them.  Jean  heard  Rale 
sigh.  The  sigh  told  him  something  and,  without 
his  will,  its  like  arose  in  his  breast. 

"What's  the  use  hanging  on  to  a  life  like  this?" 
Rale  made  the  query  just  audible. 

Jean  did  not  answer  it. 

"She  was  a  reason,"  the  boy  breathed,  staring  at 
the  water. 

Jean  turned  on  him. 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"You  are  no  man,"  he  accused  him.  "Life  for  a 
man,  it  is  at  the  mercy  of  no  woman.  I  say  it." 

"All  right.  Wait.  You'll  see.  When  she  was 
alive  I  lived  to  win  her.  Now  she's  dead  I  live  to 
get  back  at  the  class  that  took  her  from  me.  There 
are  others  like  me,  just  waiting  to  give  their  lives, 
like  you'd  blow  a  feather  into  the  air,  to  stop  'em. 
Nights  like  this  I  can't  wait.  She's  there,  just  there, 
all  the  time,  and  yet  I  put  out  my  hand  and  there's 
nothing.  Before,  I  used  to  believe  in  dying.  I 
thought  it  was  the  end.  It  isn't.  She's  there. 
But  I  can't  get  her,  and  there's  the  chance  that 
when  I  die  I  will.  But  first  I've  got  to  do  something 
to  pay  'em  back  for  what  I've  stood,  and  what 
others  like  me  have  stood  and  said  nothing.  When 
you  play  I  think  I'll  see  her  again.  That's  why  I 
can  talk  to  you." 

"You  are  very  queer.  You  are  very  foolish.  A 
woman,  she  is  like  another  woman.  For  a  little  you 
are  curious,  oh,  but  curious.  For  a  little  you  think 
that  it  is  the  woman  who  makes  such  feelings  in  the 
breast,  and  because  the  feelings  they  are  fine  the 
woman,  she  must  be  fine  as  well.  But  at  last  you 
would  always  find  that  she  was  only  a  woman  and 
there  are  many  such." 

"You  don't  understand." 

"It  is  you  who  do  not  understand." 

There  was  a  silence.     Presently  Rale  asked: 

"  Did  you  ever  stand  beside  a  girl,  a  girl  in  a  white 
dress,  and  watch  the  moonlight  on  her  face?" 

114 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"I  do  not  remember." 

"Did  you  ever  touch  her  hand  and,  for  the  first 
time,  feel  her  fingers  close  on  yours?" 

"I  have  not  touched  women's  hands.  I  have 
taken  them,  yes.  I  do  not  know  what  their  fingers 
did.  It  did  not  trouble  me." 

"But  you  have  had  a  girl's  first  kiss?" 

To  this  Jean  made  no  answer. 

"And  then,"  said  Arthur  Rale,  his  Southern  voice 
deepening,  "did  you  live  hours  together,  dreaming 
all  your  dreams  side  by  side?  Perhaps  they  were 
humble  dreams  enough,  but  if  they  failed,  and  all  that 
was  left  of  them  was  memory  and  longing — " 

"Stop!"  Jean  sprang  erect.  "Are  you  an  im- 
becile to  talk  to  me  so?"  Almost  running,  he  left 
Arthur  Rale  alone. 

Half-way  home  his  steps  slackened  at  the  thought 
of  the  emptiness  awaiting  him.  He  remembered 
hungry,  homeless  nights  in  London.  Now  it  was 
his  soul  that  hungered,  homeless.  Up  to  now 
his  work  had  been  all  he  needed  to  appease  his 
eternal  yearning  for  the  perfect.  To-night  he 
wanted  Hild.  Wanting  her,  his  passionate  curiosity 
to  know  if  there  was  such  a  Hild  had  changed  to  the 
grotesque  fear  that  there  was  not.  Suppose  she 
came  home  and  he  found  her,  not  the  Hild  he  had 
for  a  moment  envisioned,  but  a  Hild  who  was  to 
him  what  the  house  without  her  was  now.  Suppose 
he  looked  and  waited,  and  never  found  her,  his  Song- 
Hild.  Suppose  she  became  to  him  the  submissive 

"5 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

drudge  he  had  tried  to  make  her.  Suppose  that  was 
all! 

As  he  let  himself  in  a  light  shone  through  the  hall 
into  his  eyes.  He  listened.  The  door  behind  him 
slammed.  Around  the  corner  of  the  living-room 
doorway  Hild's  head  appeared.  She  had  her  hands 
full  of  music  which  she  was  straightening.  She  dis- 
appeared, waiting  for  him  to  join  her,  but  he  did  not 
dare.  A  few  moments  ago  the  place  had  been  empty 
—now  it  lived  with  dangers  and  hopes  and  Hild. 
Was  his  madness  to  be  proved — the  madness  of  his 
dream,  or  the  madness  of  his  waking?  Was  it  Hild 
who  waited  for  him  beyond  that  door,  the  Hild  that 
her  name  had  come  within  a  few  hours  to  mean,  or 
a  shadow,  usurping  her  name? 

Battered  as  was  his  exterior  sense  by  experience  of 
the  grosser  sort,  a  freshness  and  sensitiveness  neces- 
sary to  his  art  remained  to  him  an  untouched  force, 
his  appreciation  profound.  As  he  hung  up  his  hat 
in  the  hall  it  seemed  to  him  he  was  going  to  meet  all 
the  wonders  of  life  and  death.  For  to  find  her  as  she 
had  haunted  his  thoughts  would  be  like  waking  in  an 
immortal  world.  It  would  be  like  letting  his  lonely 
soul  out  into  the  light.  Was  she  there? 

He  came  into  the  room.  Hild  saw  with  shame  that 
he  was  shabby  and  unkempt,  but  as  he  came  nearer 
she  forgot  it,  meeting  his  eyes. 

"I  came  home — unexpectedly,"  she  said.  "You 
ought  to  be  tidier,  Jean/*  She  referred  to  the 
littered  room.  "I've  been  looking  at  your  work. 

116 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

I'll  copy  it  to-morrow.  I  had  an  awfully  good  time. 
Let's  go  over  this.  Shall  we?" 

She  adjusted  the  scrawled  music  so  that  she  could 
see,  and  handed  Jean  his  instrument.  Then  she 
played  without  the  diffidence  that  usually  restrained 
her.  They  played  an  impromptu  adaptation  of  all 
that  Jean  had  finished  of  the  score,  meeting  in  the 
music  as  if  released  from  all  the  crudities  of  the 
flesh.  They  were  not  two,  but  one,  while  they 
played.  As  Hild's  hands  fell  to  her  lap  and  Jean 
laid  down  his  violin  quick  fingers  clutched  them  away 
from  their  union,  tying  them  fast  each  to  his  own 
limitations,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  helpless 
across  the  distance  imposed.  Hild  bent  backward, 
seeming  to  stretch.  For  a  moment  she  was  to  Jean 
in  an  intense  attractiveness  the  woman,  his  wife. 
He  bent  over  her  roughly,  throwing  his  arm  around 
her  shoulders  and  setting  his  face  to  hers,  and  then  as 
he  freed  her  he  caught  the  look  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
she — Hild — his  Song-Hild,  and  she  hated  and  feared 
him.  It  was  like  the  refusal  of  his  own  soul  to  own 
him.  It  was  like  being  an  outcast  from  the  light. 
It  was  like  being  rejected  and  thrown  to  all  he 
loathed.  He  could  have  the  Hild  he  had  married— 
the  husk — but  that  other,  he  remembered  now  she 
had  told  him  himself,  was  beyond  and  away  from 
him,  no  more  his  than  a  star. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  said,  pushing  her  chair 
away  from  him. 

"I  want  you  to  play  again — play  these — "  He 
117 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

opened  a  book  of  music  at  random.  She  obeyed. 
When  she  faltered,  so  tired  that  she  could  not  do  her 
part,  he  spoke  to  her  roughly.  He  kept  her  there 
until  she  could  hold  her  place  no  longer,  and  when 
she  rose  to  leave  him  he  flung  the  music  down  with 
a  violent  exclamation.  "Go!  It  is  no  use!"  he 
said;  and  she,  frightened  and  surprised,  went. 

He  stood  where  she  left  him.  So  he  had  found 
her,  the  substance  of  his  dream!  Finding  her,  he 
had  also  lost  her.  He  had  picked  to  pieces  the  bulb, 
longing  too  late  for  the  flower. 

He  could  hear  her  moving  to  and  fro  beyond  the 
wall.  He  had  watched  her  sometimes  when  she  did 
not  know  that  he  was  near,  and  he  understood  now 
why  he  had  thought  her  beautiful  at  these  moments. 
He  could  foretell  the  quick  raising  of  an  invisible 
shield  which  would  follow  the  sound  of  his  hand  on 
the  knob  of  her  door.  He  remembered  the  look  she 
had  turned  on  him  a  few  moments  before.  It 
barred  him  from  her.  Never — he  took  it  as  a  vow — 
should  she  look  at  him  so  again. 

He  flung  himself,  face  downward,  on  the  divan  and 
lay  still.  When  dawn  came,  giving  first  shape,  then 
color,  to  the  objects  in  the  room,  he  slept.  Hild,  at 
her  morning  tasks,  found  him  there  and  did  not 
wake  him. 

"He  will  never  forgive  me,"  she  told  herself.  She 
moved  about  the  room,  making  order  where  Jean  had 
left  confusion.  She  could  see  that  the  sky  was  the  blue 
of  morning  beyond  smoking  chimneys  that  intervened. 

118 


CHAPTER  XI 

r  I  ^HE  visit  to  Annanville  had  not  been  without  its 
1  peculiar  results  to  Hild.  It  was  an  experience 
quite  novel,  a  definite  step  into  a  world  independent 
of  personal  ups  and  downs.  The  people  whom  she 
met  there  were  men  and  women  who  had  made  places 
for  themselves.  Many  of  them  were  still  struggling 
for  recognition,  for  Mme.  Cavari  liked  to  extend  her 
hand  to  assist  a  plucky  climber;  some  of  them  were 
resting  on  a  degree  of  artistic  success;  still  others 
were  mere  satellites  of  genius.  The  play  of  ideas, 
the  freedom  of  expression  in  conversation,  fascinated 
and  enlivened  Hild's  mind.  She  was  quick  to  catch 
inspiration  from  an  illuminating  phrase.  She  was 
not  familiar  with  the  books  they  quoted  so  freely, 
she  did  not  understand  half  the  allusions  she  heard, 
but  she  listened  enthusiastically  and  dared  to  put 
in  a  word  or  two  here  and  there,  and  she  felt  that  her 
freshness  and  sincerity  told.  She  played  for  them, 
too,  first  accompanying,  then  rendering  a  few  things 
with  a  taste  and  restraint  which  happened  to  please 
especially  her  audience,  for  the  most  part  of  the 
reactionist  school.  She  made  a  small  triumph 
which  was  delicious  to  her  out  of  proportion  to  its 

119 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

importance.  Every  one  had  liked  her,  had  listened 
when  she  spoke,  had  praised  her  music.  Mme. 
Cavari  had  given  her  a  special  mark  of  favor  in  her 
caressing  manner  and  the  way  in  which  she  called 
her  "Hild."  It  had  become  a  habit  with  Cavari  to 
turn  to  Hild  with  a  "Hild  knows,"  "Hild  under- 
stands," "Isn't  it  so,  Hild,"  and  Hild  waited  for 
these  moments. 

Marcia  Rale  was  of  the  party,  not  because  any  one 
wished  for  her,  but  Hanbury  was  expected  and  had 
wired  Mme.  Cavari  to  have  his  secretary  on  hand. 
Hild  was  drawn  to  her  by  an  interest  she  could  not 
explain,  and  as  Marcia  knew  the  country  and  they 
both  liked  to  walk,  they  spent  hours  together. 
Marcia  had  had  a  good  musical  education,  and 
played  the  'cello  with  some  skill.  Through  music 
they  slipped  into  more  intimate  themes  for  conversa- 
tion, and  Marcia,  in  bitter  phrases,  told  Hild  her 
story.  She  did  not  complain;  she  sneered  at  herself, 
at  life,  even  at  those  who  had  befriended  her,  until 
she  ran  against  barriers  in  Hild,  when  she  was 
quick  to  find  new  ways.  Once  she  tried  to  sneer  at 
Jean,  watching  Hild,  but  she  did  not  go  far  with 
what  she  had  to  say.  Her  resentment  at  life  seemed 
to  Hild  to  hide  something,  perhaps  something  better. 
Cavari's  stories  of  Marcia's  devotion  to  her  brother 
bore  out  this  idea. 

Hild  was  in  constant  demand.  She  was  petted 
and  praised  and  encouraged,  and  bloomed  under  the 
treatment.  She  felt  free  to  talk  and  to  laugh  and 

1 20 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

to  say  what  occurred  to  her  to  say.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  heard  a  generous  give  and  take  of 
thought  and  impression.  Into  this  she  threw  her  mite, 
and  was  surprised  to  see  how  respectably  it  weighed. 

When  her  first  delight  in  the  freedom  of  the  display 
drew  off  and  she  began  to  look  for  enduring  coin 
among  all  that  glittered  she  found  that  the  brightness 
was  the  best  thing  about  much  of  what  she  had 
thought  to  treasure  for  use.  It  was  then  that  she 
began  to  wish  for  Jean.  He  would  know  how  to 
deal  with  the  literary  young  man  who  handed  about 
thoughts  like  rotten  apples  done  up  in  silver  paper. 
They  would  listen  to  Jean,  and  if  he  would  play  to 
them,  how  he  would  triumph.  He  would  reign 
among  them,  and  at  the  thought  Hild  felt  her  cheeks 
glow  as  if  she  heard  crowds  cheering  her  master. 

An  unlucky  incident  spoiled  the  end  of  her  visit. 
This  was  the  appearance  of  Simeon  Pierce.  She 
encountered  him  during  one  of  her  walks  with  Mar- 
cia.  She  knew  that  she  blushed,  and  thought  that 
Marcia  saw  her  blush.  She  made  some  half-audible 
protest  as  Simeon  turned  to  walk  with  them  to  the 
gates  of  Cavari's  place,  but  she  yielded  to  the  en- 
treaty in  his  glance,  afraid  of  what  he  might  say  if  she 
did  not,  and  waited  after  Marcia,  smiling,  had  gone 
on  to  the  house. 

"I've  been  waiting  every  day  to  meet  you,"  said 
Simeon,  looking  at  her. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  summer  clouds  and 
there  was  a  pink  suffusion  of  light  on  Hild's  face. 

121 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"Well,  you  oughtn't  to."  Hild  turned  her  profile 
to  him  and  shut  the  gate  which  was  between  them. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  just  can't.  What's  the  use 
of  talking?  Hild,  don't  go.  Don't."  He  reached 
out,  catching  her  hand. 

Hild  stamped  a  foot. 

"Simeon,  let  me  be." 

"Say  you'll  stay  ten  minutes." 

"I  can't.     I'll  be  late  for  dinner.     Let  me  go." 

"Then  say  I  can  come  to  see  you  to-morrow. 
You  can't  expect  me  to  stand  this  kind  of  thing. 
It's  too  awful.  At  night —  It's  never  been  like  this 
before." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

"I'm  not.  You  belong  to  me.  I've  got  to  see  you. 
I'm  coming  to-morrow." 

"Simeon,  what  good  will  it  do?     Let  me  go." 

At  last,  his  grasp  on  her  hand  never  relaxing,  she 
said: 

"Then  come  if  you  want  to." 

He  let  her  go. 

In  the  morning  she  made  an  excuse  to  Mme. 
Cavari,  and  left  by  an  afternoon  train.  Before  she 
left  she  arranged  with  Marcia  Rale  that  she  and 
Hild  should  sometimes  meet  in  New  York  at  night 
when  Jean  was  at  the  theater. 

"He'd  leave  you  and  come  for  you,"  suggested 
Marcia. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Hild,  not  too  sure  of  it. 

The  memory  of  her  visit  was  something  to  refresh 

122 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

her  during  the  weeks  that  followedj  it.  She  had 
returned  to  Jean,  wondering  how  he  would  treat  her 
after  her  defiance  of  him.  She  found  that  his 
attitude  toward  her  was  as  completely  changed  as 
possible.  Once  he  had  been  coarsely  affectionate, 
vividly  impatient,  or  entirely  oblivious  of  her.  Once 
there  had  been  many  hours  in  the  day  when  he  was 
nothing  in  her  life.  Now  he  gave  her  no  time  to 
attend  to  the  work  which  he  demanded  of  her. 
There,  used  to  be  many  minutes  when  he  was  kind. 
Now  he  was  never  kind.  He  made  her  play  for  him 
until  she  ached  with  weariness.  He  sneered  at  her 
mistakes,  and  never  praised  her  successes.  She  would 
rise  from  the  piano  after  four  hours  of  the  hardest 
kind  of  work  to  get  his  evening  meal,  and  before  she 
was  ready  with  it  he  would  fume  at  her  slowness. 
He  let  her  go  to  Marcia  Rale's  in  the  evenings,  but 
he  refused  to  let  her  play  in  public.  No  one  could 
move  him  in  this  matter.  He  expected  Hild  to  sit 
up  for  him,  and  to  play  far  into  the  night  if  he  wished 
it.  She  was  magnificently  strong,  but  she  began  to 
grow  thin  and  tired  under  his  exactions. 

He  had  destroyed  the  whole  first  part  of  his 
symphonic  poem  and  begun  it  again.  He  was  not 
satisfied  with  his  work.  The  new  music  he  was 
building  was,  Hild  could  see,  finer  than  the  other. 
Like  him,  she  was  a  good  part  possessed  by  it. 
There  were  moments  which  came  oftener  and  oftener 
when  Hild  simply  did  not  care  how  he  treated  her  so 
long  as  he  let  her  work  with  him.  There  were  other 
9  123 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

moments  when  she  could  have  killed  him;  still  others 
when  she  thought  he  would  kill  her.  He  required 
from  her  so  much  that,  to  attain  the  least  of  it,  she 
had  to  exert  superhuman  effort.  She  tried  to  satisfy 
him,  and  appeared  to  tantalize  him.  She  thought 
she  understood  that  personally  he  did  not  mean  to 
forgive  her,  but  that  artistically  he  would  try  her  a 
little  longer.  That  there  should  ever  be  anything  like 
love  between  them  seemed  impossible. 

She  had  never  been  able  to  persuade  Jean  to  join 
her  in  her  visits  to  Miss  Rale,  though  he  usually 
came  for  her  on  his  way  home  from  the  theater.  On 
one  occasion,  however,  he  came  up-stairs  and  heard 
them  playing  Handel.  Contrary  to  all  custom,  he 
joined  them  for  the  purpose  of  setting  right  Marcia's 
interpretation,  which  he  pointed  out  was  an  insult 
alike  to  the  composer  and  the  intelligent  listener. 
Hild  watched  the  musicians  in  amusement.  She  was 
pleased  when  Jean  took  out  his  fiddle  and  signed  to 
her  to  play  the  air  once  more.  Marcia  Rale  listened. 

"Well,  of  course,"  she  said,  when  it  was  over,  "but 
you  are  a  master,  you  see.  I'm  only  me!" 

It  was  so  evidently  a  fact  that  no  one  of  the  three 
commented  upon  it.  There  followed  a  controversy 
on  modern  music.  Jean  and  Marcia  disagreed  over 
most  things,  mainly  their  operatic  ideal — Marcia 
looked  backward,  Jean  looked  forward.  She  con- 
ceived Wagnerian  opera  as  all  that  music  could 
achieve;  Jean  thought  the  oratorio  a  finer  form,  and 
development  of  it  the  music  of  the  future.  He 

124 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

pointed  out  in  glowing  words  the  failure,  the  artistic 
crudity,  of  trying  to  link  realistic  drama  to  an  expres- 
sion of  the  dramatic,  which  should  be  above  and 
beyond  any  mere  realism.  He  upheld  his  argument 
ably.  Clearly  he  got  the  best  of  the  cultured  Marcia. 
Where  had  he  managed  to  pick  up  so  much  knowl- 
edge ?  How  had  he  come  to  be  fit  to  compete  with 
a  woman  of  Marcia's  education?  When  the  conver- 
sation turned  on  books  the  same  superiority  showed. 
What  Jean  had  read  he  had  assimilated  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  existed  with  him,  was  easily  referred  to, 
accurately  remembered.  Hild  was  fond  of  hearing 
Marcia  Rale  talk.  She  liked  her  bitter,  one-sided 
philosophy  without  accepting  it  seriously.  Now  she 
heard  her  give  vent  to  it  while  Jean  listened.  She 
wondered  what  he  would  say,  or  if  he  would  say 
anything.  She  did  not  know  what  he  thought 
about  the  questions  Marcia  Rale  raised  so  freely. 
She  would  not  have  asked  him  herself,  but  she  found 
herself  curious  to  know. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  Marcia  was  saying. 
"The  world  has  done  nothing  for  me;  why  should  I 
do  anything  for  it?  I  have  been  dragged  through 
villainous  depths,  tortured  as  no  human  being 
ought  to  be — if  the  word  'ought'  means  anything. 
Very  well — I  owe  no  one  anything.  If  I  believed  in 
a  God  that  was  omnipotent  I  should  hate  Him. 
Why  should  I  not?  If  He  were  omnipotent  He 
could  have  spared  me.  He  didn't!  I've  never  been 
anything  but  unhappy.  Why?  Because  I  happen 

I2S 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

to  have  a  plain  face  and  scraggy  body  and  a  set  of 
nerves  so  sensitive  that  I  can  see  and  hear  things 
that  others  can't.  If  I  had  been  born  blunt  and 
pretty  and  stupid  I  should  be  a  happy  woman  to-day. 
I  tell  you  the  world  is  a  mistake,  and  we  are  all  mis- 
takes in  it,  and  I  like  best  the  music  and  the  books 
that  tell  us  so,  the  plainer  the  better.  I'll  grieve  over 
it  with  you,  and  make  merry  in  spite  of  it,  and  make 
up  my  mind  to  face  it  without  leaning  on  others  or 
too  much  whining,  but  I  won't  shout,  'All's  well 
with  the  world, '  when  I  know  it's  a  lie,  and  I  won't 
promise  compensating  raptures  for  stupid  suffering 
when  the  best  I  hope  for  is  peace  in  the  grave.*' 

"So!  That  is  why  you  play  Handel  like  a  street 
urchin  at  marbles!  I  see.  Get  ready,  Hild." 

Hild  suppressed  a  smile  as  she  fastened  her  hat. 

"What  is  your  theory  of  happiness?"  asked  Marcia. 

"Happiness!  Happiness!  I  have  no  theory! 
Tell  me  this,  young  lady:  What  does  your  happiness 
matter!  Happiness — I  will  tell  you  what  it  is. 
See!  You  stick  up  a  wooden  post.  So!  You  tell 
two  boys  to  run  a  race  to  see  which  will  reach  it  first. 
Your  wooden  post — it  becomes  the  important  thing. 
The  one  who  wins — he  is  happy.  His  blood  is  hot, 
his  head  is  high.  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  the 
wooden  post  ?  So  much  for  happiness.  Now,  if  you 
please,  we  will  look  at  pain.  You  or  I  are  resting 
by  the  way  and  in  a  pleasant  place,  with  shady  trees 
and  flowers.  We  are  sleepy  and  content,  but  we  do 
not  progress  on  our  journey.  So!  The  skies  darken 

126 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

and  storm  descends.  There  is  no  protection.  We 
shiver  and  cower  and  cry  out,  but  it  does  no  good. 
We  move  onward.  We  see  we  were  foolish  to  linger. 
Very  well !  Next  time  maybe  we  remember — maybe 
we  forget.  Happiness  and  pain — they  are  different 
sides  of  the  same  thing.  It  does  not  matter  by  so 
much  which  comes.  It  only  matters  that  we  go 
forward.  You  do  not  understand — oh  no — I  see  it 
— because  you  do  not  know.  But  there  will  come  one 
minute  when  you  will  know.  Oh  yes.  Are  you 
coming?"  to  Hild. 

Marcia  Rale  laughed.  "That's  all  very  well,"  she 
said,  "but  you  ignore  the  stupidity  of  our  afflictions. 
Why  should  we  be  punished  for  ignorance  more  than 
for  sin?  Tell  me  that." 

Jean  turned  on  her.  "You  make  me  weep!  You 
bring  me  to  tears.  Have  I  not  told  you  that  pain 
simply  does  not  matter?  Are  my  words  Greek? 
Let  me  ask  you  this:  Did  you  ever  see  a  woman  bear 
a  child  ?  I  have.  That  will  tell  you  how  much  pain 
matters  when  it  is  passed.  It  is  a  question  of  time 
in  eternity.  You  think  only  of  the  little  minute." 

"And  pray  what  should  we  care  for,  since  life  is  a 
series  of  little  minutes?" 

"Ah,  that  is  where  the  words  stop.  Go  and  study 
your  music.  You  will  find  it  there." 

Hild's  quick  glance  flew,  glowing,  to  her  husband's 
face.  His  words  drew  her  sympathy,  leaping,  to  his 
thought. 

"I  don't  find  it,"  said  Marcia  Rale. 

127 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"You  do  not  look  for  it,"  amended  Jean. 

As  they  walked  home  along  the  hard  unlovely 
streets  Hild  thought  deeply  on  what  she  had  heard. 
Woman-like,  she  applied  it  to  her  personal  life,  and 
made  by  its  light  a  discovery.  Jean  was  suffering. 
She  had  long  realized  that  he  was  working  in  a  sort 
of  agony  of  creation,  which  was  ecstasy  as  well. 
Now  she  knew  that  some  exaction  of  the  spirit  was 
claiming  him.  For  some  time  she  had  recognized  in 
his  ill-treatment  of  herself — it  amounted  to  that — the 
unreason  of  a  sick  man.  She  had  come  to  do  his 
will  with  all  her  heart,  not  because  she  feared  him  but 
because  she  pitied  him.  Resentment  was  gone,  and 
in  its  place  came  a  dread  of  the  results  of  such  furious 
toil.  She  did  not  know  how  long  he  would  hold  out 
nor  to  what  his  mad  concentration  would  lead,  and 
she  did  not  know  how  much  longer  she  could  physi- 
cally and  mentally  endure  her  life.  She  saw  that  he 
would  never  alleviate  his  suffering  by  crying  out 
against  it.  She  must  stay  by  until  this  work  was 
done — that  was  clear.  Then  perhaps  she  could  go 
home  for  a  time  to  renew  her  physical  reserve. 
Spiritually  she  was  alive  and  robust.  From  despis- 
ing her  husband  she  had  come  to  look  to  him  for  a 
tonic  necessary  for  her  own  progression.  From 
what  she  had  seen  of  other  points  of  view  in  that  week 
at  Annanville  she  had  come  to  understand  that  they 
were  lax  and  lazy  beside  Jean's.  He  demanded  of 
himself  the  highest  in  the  thing  he  accepted  as  his 
life,  and  he  demanded  of  her — Hild — everything. 

128 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

To  Jean  she  was  still  a  bungler  at  the  piano.  To 
others  she  was  already  an  adept,  so  different  was  his 
standard  from  the  world's.  He  was  poor  and  un- 
known, a  mere  musical  breadwinner,  and  yet  Hild 
knew  that  she  was  privileged  in  living  by  his  side,  the 
companion  of  his  labors. 

When  they  reached  home  Hild  waited  to  see  if 
she  would  be  asked  to  play.  Then  she  went  to  her 
room,  but  Jean  recalled  her.  He  gave  her  scrawled 
lines  of  music  to  copy,  and  while  she  worked  she 
heard  him  walking  to  and  fro  behind  her.  Then  she 
was  forced  to  go  to  him  for  an  explanation.  He 
struck  the  sheet  from  her  hand.  When  she  picked 
it  up  and  asked  him  again  what  she  should  write  he 
told  her. 

She  finished  the  copying,  but  even  then  he  called 
her  to  the  piano  and  made  her  play.  It  was  nearly 
morning  before  he  told  her  roughly  that  she  could  go. 
She  rose,  stiff  and  spent. 

"Surely  you  are  going  to  rest,"  she  said  to  Jean. 

"Rest?"  he  said. 

She  came  to  him  where  he  had  flung  himself  on  the 
divan,  and  she  put  out  her  hand  to  make  him  look 
at  her. 

"I  will  do  anything  to  help  you,"  she  said,  sud- 
denly. 

He  took  the  hand  she  had  stretched  out  and  clung 
to  it,  wringing  and  pressing  it,  keeping  and  holding 
it  as  if  it  were  all  that  lived  between  him  and  destruc- 
tion. She  endured  it,  not  knowing  how  it  helped 

129 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

him,  but  meeting  his  need.  Once  before  she  had 
seen  a  man  suffer,  but  that  was  a  selfish  yielding  up 
of  manhood — this  was  spiritual  conflict  such  as  awed 
her.  When  he  let  her  go  and  lay  still  with  closed  eyes 
she  brought  a  knitted  cover  and  spread  it  over  him  as 
tenderly  as  if  he  had  been  a  sick  child. 


CHAPTER  XII 

OUMMER  and  early  autumn  passed,  and  the 
<J  sharp  beauty  of  October  came  and  went  like  a 
handsome  but  too  clever  woman  in  her  prime. 
November  swung  aloft  tapestries  of  gray  cloud, 
and  December  came,  in  retrospective  mood,  dreaming 
of  September. 

The  cold  weather  rescued  Hild  from  collapse  and 
put  courage  into  her  for  a  time.  She  went  on  dog- 
gedly, working  for  Jean,  only  thinking  from  one  day 
to  another,  not  even  trying  to  hope.  The  few  who 
saw  her  often  knew  her  case,  in  spite  of  her  simple 
silence.  Mme.  Cavari  had  ventured  to  remonstrate, 
and  Hild  had  managed  to  listen,  thanking  Heaven 
meanwhile  that  she  had  no  other  friends. 

Help  came,  however,  whither  she  dimly  guessed. 
Obviously,  Cavari  arranged  the  matter.  Actually, 
Hild  believed,  Hanbury  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
Once  a  week,  on  Sundays,  Hild  was  allowed  to  go  to 
spend  a  part  of  the  day  at  Mme.  Cavari's,  and  in  the 
afternoon  the  singer's  friends  gathered  for  music  and 
sociability.  At  these  times  Hild  found  herself  petted 
and  made  a  heroine,  and  through  them  she  kept  her- 
self at  her  task.  Mr.  Hanbury  was  nearly  always  at 
Nellie's  on  these  occasions,  and  he  often  talked  to 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

Hild  for  a  few  moments  at  a  time.  He  never  made 
phrases,  nor  talked  about  his  soul,  but  Hild  believed 
he  knew  what  she  was  trying  to  do  and  liked  her  for 
it.  The  thought  warmed  and  braced  her.  It  was 
the  only  sympathy  she  had. 

On  one  of  these  afternoons  she  had  asked  Marcia 
to  send  her  brother  to  stay  with  Jean  while  she  was 
away.  Jean  and  Arthur  never  seemed  to  fail  each 
other,  though  they  often  quarreled,  and  more  often 
sat  in  silence.  On  this  occasion  Jean  had  been  play- 
ing, but  stopped  soon  after  Hild  had  boarded  her 
down-town  car. 

"You  move  too  much/'  said  Jean.  "How  can  I 
listen  to  my  soul  if  you  dance  your  feet  ?  You  do  not 
even  dance  them  in  time!"  He  laid  away  his  fiddle 
and  filled  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

"Hild  doesn't  look  very  well,"  said  Rale,  after 
hesitation. 

"Hild?"  he  said.  "Why  do  you  speak  to  me  of 
Hild?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?" 

" Because  you  do  not.     Therefore  I  ask  why!" 

:<You  can't  expect  me  to  blurt  it  out  like 
that." 

Jean  nodded,  and  lighted  his  pipe  with  care. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  settling  himself  in  a  chair  and 
putting  crossed  feet  on  the  table  among  Hild's  work. 
"It  is  that  you  wish  to  be — what  you  call — tactful. 
I  will  interrupt  no  more." 

Arthur  grasped  his  knee  with  nervous  hands. 

132 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"Fact  is,  we  don't  think  Hild  is  happy,"  he 
suggested. 

Jean  waited. 

"I  was  wondering-— did  you  ever  hear  of  a  man 
named  Pierce?" 

Still  Jean  waited,  but  he  laid  his  pipe  aside. 

"Well" — Arthur  had  not  an  eye  for  Jean's  stif- 
fened shoulders,  seeing  that  he  was  quiet — "well — 
Marcia  *d  kill  me  for  telling  you — she  said  no  false 
sense  of  friendship  must  induce  me — she  was  sorry 
she  let  it  out,  anyway — but  this  young  Pierce  met 
Hild  while  she  was  at  Annanville,  and  from  what 
Marcia  gathered  they  made  a  date,  too.  Of  course 
I  do  not  know  how  you  fellows  feel.  But  we  South- 
erners— Well,  it  wouldn't  go  on!  That's  all!" 

Jean  made  no  response.  He  smoked  his  pipe  to 
its  end,  and  then  he  began  to  play.  At  last  Rale 
left,  mystified  as  to  the  reception  of  his  news. 

Hild,  in  Mme.  Cavari's  studio,  was  for  once  not 
inclined  to  play,  partly  because  she  was  dazed  with 
weariness,  partly  because  Simeon  Pierce  was  in  the 
room.  He  came  more  often  than  she  liked,  and  al- 
ways managed  to  sit  where  he  could  watch  her  when 
she  played.  Hanbury  seemed  to  divine  that  she  dis- 
liked this,  and  he  always  upheld  her  when  she  ex- 
pressed a  wish  not  to  play,  and  stayed  near  her  often 
when  a  tete-a-tete  with  Simeon  was  imminent.  She 
did  not  care  to  conjecture  why  a  stranger  should  stand 
so  close  to  her  when  no  one  else  was  within  hail, 
but  she  once  wistfully  said  to  him,  "I'd  like  you  to 

133 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

know  my  husband."     She  never  mentioned  Jean  to 
others. 

Hanbury  was  not  at  Cavari's  to-day,  and  Hild 
missed  him.  She  saw  that  Nellie  was  worried. 

"It's  this  strike!"  Hild  was  told  in  an  undertone. 
"Paul  is  working  night  and  day.  He's  in  Chicago 
now.  It  will  kill  him  if  it  goes  wrong." 

"How  can  it?"  asked  Hild. 

Nellie  sighed.  "It's  the  Extremists  and  their 
firebrands!"  she  explained.  "As  if  the  men  weren't 
too  hot  to  be  reasonable  already."  She  cast  a  look 
at  Marcia  Rale,  who  was  opposite.  "I  hope  you'll 
keep  young  Rale  with  you  as  much  as  you  can.  I 
suppose  Jean  doesn't  excite  him  ?  He's  full  of  dread- 
ful speeches.  I  don't  know  if  he  means  them." 

Hild  waited  for  Marcia,  afraid  that  Simeon  might 
join  her.  The  two  girls  left  together,  and  when 
Simeon's  step  sounded  behind  them  Hild  gave 
Marcia's  arm  a  pull.  "Come  home  with  me  and 
have  supper,  Marcia,"  she  begged. 

"Can't,"  said  Miss  Rale. 

Simeon  fitted  his  step  to  theirs. 

"Art  is  there,"  said  Hild. 

"He  always  is.  Jean  talks  socialism  to  him.  I 
hope  he  won't  get  him  hung." 

Hild  laughed  and,  as  Marcia  stopped  at  the  corner  to 
turn  homeward,  gave  another  tug  at  her  friend's  arm. 

"Please  come." 

"No,  I  won't.  And  I  reckon  you'll  have  a  walk. 
There's  a  block  on  the  line." 

134 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

There  certainly  was.  As  far  as  could  be  seen  one 
electric  car  succeeded  another;  disgusted  travelers 
were  leaving  them  to  find  their  way  otherwise.  For 
Hild  there  was  nothing  but  to  walk. 

"I'll  look  after  Hild,"  said  Simeon.  "It  isn't  far, 
anyhow." 

"No,  and  you  can  go  through  the  Park,"  said 
Marcia. 

Hild  thought  she  sneered. 

"Say,  Hild,"  said  Simeon,  when  they  reached  the 
quiet  of  the  Park-side,  "I've  had  awfully  good  news 
to-day." 

"Oh!" 

"I've  got  a  chance  to  go  into  Mr.  Alford's  office — 
a  good  job.  It's  great." 

"I'm  glad.  You  know  I  am,  Simeon.  Tell  me  all 
about  it." 

"Oh,  it's  a  chance,  that's  all.  But,  Hild,  look 
here!  There  isn't  any  use  in  anything  good  coming 
to  me  when  you're  looking  so  awful." 

"Thanks!  What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

"If  I  did  what  I'd  like —  Don't  walk  so  fast. 
I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you.  Won't  you  go  home  to 
Beverly  and  visit  your  mother  a  while?  Say  you 
will." 

"I'm  too  busy.  Really,  Simeon.  Don't  talk 
about  it." 

"I've  got  to.  Life's  no  circus  to  me,  I'll  tell  you 
that.  But  if  I've  got  to  lose  you  and  see  you  looking 

135 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

pinched  and  pale  besides,  I  tell  you  I  can't  stand  it, 
and  I  won't.  You  can  just  do  something — go  away 
— something,  or  I'll — I'll — " 

It  was  here  that  Hild  began  to  cry.  For  a  long 
time  she  cried  into  her  muff,  but  then  the  dreadful 
moment  came  when  she  had  to  blow  her  nose,  and 
Simeon  knew!  He  managed  to  steer  her  into  a  nar- 
row path  that  led  into  privacy,  such  as  Central  Park 
abounds  in,  and  put  her  down  on  a  bench  and  let  her 
cry  on.  He  patted  her  hand  and  spoke  words  that 
made  her  cry  harder  than  ever,  and  finally  he  sat 
down  beside  her  and  waited  in  silence,  which  was  the 
most  sensible  thing  he  could  have  done.  Finally, 
"It's  too  cold  to  sit  here,"  he  said.  "Come  on, 
Hild."  At  every  step  that  brought  them  nearer  to 
her  door  he  found  it  less  possible  to  hold  his  peace. 
He  was  taking  her  back  to  the  man  who  would  abuse 
her.  It  was  all  wrong  somewhere. 

Hild  was  busy  recovering  herself. 

"Hild,"  said  Simeon,  slowly,  "have  you  ever 
thought  that  there  is  a  way  out  of  marriage  when 
it  is  not  happy — a  way  certified  by  law?  Did  you 
ever  think  of  that?" 

Hild  could  only  say  "No." 

"You  are  too  young  to  have  your  life  settled  on 
a  mistake  of  your  mother's.'  It's  dreadful,  and 
shouldn't  be  allowed.  It  could  be  managed;  of 
course  it  could.  Think  of  it,  Hild.  Lots  of  people 
believe  that  no  marriage  is  sacred  that  isn't  a  mar- 
riage of  love.  Can't  you  see  that?" 

136 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I've  never  thought 
about  those  things." 

"Think  now.     Think  of  what  I've  said." 

"You  needn't  come  in,"  said  Hild,  as  they  reached 
her  step.  "Please  don't." 

"I'll  see  you  up-stairs." 

"Please  don't.     I've  forgotten  my  key." 

Simeon  rang  and  the  click-click  of  the  opening  door 
followed. 

"I'll  see  you  up-stairs,"  said  Simeon,  stubbornly; 
and  Hild,  too  proud  to  say  more,  let  him  follow  her. 
At  the  floor  below  her  own  she  looked  up  between 
the  banister-posts  to  see  that  Jean  was  standing 
in  the  doorway  waiting.  She  dreaded  his  seeing 
Simeon,  and  Simeon  seemed  to  dread  it  for  her,  for 
he  stopped  as  if  to  go  back,  when  Jean  looked  over 
and  saw  them. 

"Good  night,  Hild,"  said  Simeon. 

"Good  night,"  said  Hild,  and  picked  up  her  gown 
to  mount  the  remaining  stairs.  She  bent  low,  for 
the  stairs  were  steep,  but  as  she  reached  the  top  she 
raised  her  head,  expecting  to  see  Jean's  angry  face. 
Instead  she  found  a  closed  door. 

Evidently  it  had  swung  and  caught  behind  Jean, 
and  he  did  not  know.  She  rang  the  bell.  There  was 
no  answer.  From  behind  the  closed  door  she  heard 
the  sound  of  the  piano.  She  waited  and  rang  again. 
Some  one  looked  out  from  the  opposite  flat.  "Ain't 
no  use  ringin'  when  he's  at  his  playin.'  Crazy  as  a 
lunatic."  And  that  door,  too,  was  slammed. 

137 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Hild  knew  now  that  Jean  had  shut  her  out.  She 
had  known  it,  she  suddenly  believed,  all  the  time^ 
She  waited  a  little  longer  and  rang  again. 

What  was  she  to  do  ?  Sit  on  the  stairs  till  he  opened 
the  door?  She  reddened  at  the  thought.  Hild,  slow 
to  anger,  was  angry  now.  She  forgot  that  she  knew 
Jean.  She  forgot  everything.  She  only  felt  that 
the  end  of  her  endurance  had  come. 

She  turned  away  and  slowly  descended  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  FTERWARD,  when  Hild  tried  to  remember  the 
2\  details  of  the  days  that  followed,  she  did  not 
recall  feeling  frightened  or  ill.  She  remembered  that 
she  had  walked  for  a  long  time  along  the  side  of  the 
Park,  and  that  some  man  had  spoken  to  her,  and 
she  had  found  herself  near  Nellie's  flat.  She  remem- 
bered the  comfort  of  the  chair  in  Nellie's  drawing- 
room,  and  she  remembered  waking  to  find  Mr.  Han- 
bury  standing  beside  her.  She  felt  he  was  talking 
to  her,  but  to  understand  required  such  immense 
effort  that  she  shook  her  head  and  went  to  sleep 
again. 

After  that  she  was  put  to  bed,  and  a  beneficent 
being  in  a  white  uniform  had  appeared,  whose  mis- 
sion was  to  answer  questions  and  talk  to  doctors,  and 
think  instead  of  Hild,  who  really  could  not  be 
bothered  with  any  of  these  things.  It  was  later, 
when  she  was  recovering,  that  Hild  realized  she  had 
been  ill.  At  the  time  it  seemed  that  she  was  a  mass 
of  aching  weariness,  which  only  required  to  be  left 
alone. 

She  woke  up;  sometimes  by  day,  with  yellow  on- 
slaught of  sunshine  on  drawn  blinds,  with  Miss 
Clarke  reading  or  knitting  on  a  low  chair  by  the  bed, 

10  139 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

where  a  table  was  laden  with  a  clock,  green  bottles, 
a  vase  of  fresh  flowers,  a  thermometer,  and  a  chart 
on  which  the  nurse  wrote  frequently,  and  which  Hild 
had  no  curiosity  to  see,  though  the  doctor  and  nurse 
seemed  to  find  it  absorbing;  sometimes  she  woke  at 
night,  when,  if  she  moved,  Miss  Clarke  would  rise 
shadowy,  with  pleated  hair,  to  give  her  water  or 
turn  her  pillow;  and  the  black  shapes  of  things 
would  loom,  and  the  steady  burning  of  the  night 
light  seemed  somehow  to  tell  the  long  dark  hours 
better  than  the  clock  that  ticked  and  ticked  when  all 
else  lay  still. 

There  was  a  wood-fire  in  Hild's  room  that  burned 
gloriously  by  day,  but  at  night  its  logs  glowed  redly, 
occasionally  starting  into  transient  flame.  Early  in 
the  morning,  dressed  in  her  white  uniform,  Miss 
Clarke  would  bend  over  the  logs,  starting  them  to  a 
blaze;  and  Hild  loved  the  moment,  for  the  nurse's 
red  hair,  which  was  abundant  and  fine,  warmed 
gloriously  beneath  her  cap,  and  her  slim,  active 
figure  seemed  a  bulwark  between  Hild  and  the  vague 
evils  of  a  dreaded  convalescence. 

The  convalescence,  however,  came  sooner  than 
any  one  had  thought.  A  day  arrived  when  Hild 
turned  on  her  pillow,  and  with  large  inquiring  eyes 
asked  a  question,  and  would  be  answered.  The  news 
was  carried  to  Mme.  Cavari.  It  was  later  con- 
veyed to  Simeon  Pierce,  and  by  letter  to  Hild's 
mother.  On  the  following  day  there  were  further 
questions,  and  a  determined  opposition  to  milk 

140 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

gruel.  After  that,  with  occasional  setbacks,  each 
day  told  in  the  courting  of  strength.  Nothing  in  the 
peculiar  illness  had  deserved  the  name  of  struggle. 
It  was  a  sudden  succumbing  to  physical  weakness 
and  a  slow  renewing  of  wasted  form.  The  doctors 
did  not  even  retire  behind  "nervous  breakdown." 
They  agreed  in  thinking  that  Hild,  taxed  nearly 
beyond  her  endurance,  had  ceased  to  endure,  that 
her  constitution  had  "struck,"  so  to  speak,  and  in 
so  doing  had  saved  her  from  worse  things. 

It  was  settled  that  Hild  should  go  to  Beverly  as 
soon  as  traveling  was  possible.  There  was  no  talk 
of  Jean.  But  one  morning  Mme.  Cavari  gave  Hild 
an  envelope,  which  she  said,  briefly,  had  been  left  for 
her  early  in  her  illness.  It  inclosed  a  flat  latch- 
key, the  one  Hild  had  neglected  to  carry  on  the 
Sunday  afternoon  when  she  had  returned  with 
Simeon.  There  was  no  letter.  Hild  thoughtfully 
hung  the  key  on  her  watch-chain,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

She  saw  much  of  Hanbury  during  her  convales- 
cence. He  never  tired  her,  and  if  she  could  have 
talked  to  any  one  it  would  have  been  to  him.  But 
she  was  not  fit  to  think  yet.  She  put  away  from  her- 
self problems,  hopes,  fears,  even  memories,  reposing 
on  her  joy  in  returning  health.  This  quietness  of 
mind  remained  to  her  during  her  first  weeks  at 
Beverly.  It  was  exquisite  to  wake,  conscious  first 
of  the  narrow  shelter  of  her  white  bed,  its  warm  cov- 
ers drawn  close  to  her  face,  a  sensation  so  familiar 

141 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

that  it  was  like  a  curtain  slipped  between  herself  and 
the  recent  past.  It  was  good  to  see  the  friendly 
apple  tree  outside  her  bedroom  window  move 
stiffly  in  the  wind,  shaking  off  the  soft  weight  of 
newly  fallen  snow.  It  was  good  to  hear  the  drip- 
drip  from  the  eaves  sounding  delicately  on  her  sill. 
Best  of  all,  to  know  that  her  mother  was  near,  wait- 
ing for  her  waking.  Hild  was  no  longer  a  girl  kept 
out  of  all  relation  to  life  in  artificial  and  enchanted 
stillness.  She  was  a  woman  to  whom  necessity 
loomed  large.  She  appreciated  her  mother.  And  to 
have  coffee  and  hot  bread  on  a  tray  as  soon  as  she 
woke  was  heavenly. 

More  difficult  at  first  was  her  meeting  with  friends. 
Miss  Massam,  spectacled  and  sharp,  was  her  first 
visitor.  Hild  kissed  the  old  lady  in  welcome  and 
listened,  smiling,  to  all  she  had  to  say,  even  to  the 
frank  comments  on  her  altered  appearance. 

"My  land,  if  you  haven't  fell  off!  Why,  you  ain't 
of  no  size  't  all,  barrin*  your  eyes!  They're  big 
'nough,  goodness  knows!" 

"I  guess  you'd  look  pretty  sick  if  you'd  been  in  bed 
four  weeks  and  living  on  gruel  and  dry  toast!"  Hild 
defended  herself. 

"Wai,  mebbe.  Yer  mother  'n*  me'll  hev'  to  fatten 
you  up,  that's  all.  Train'  nurses!  Train'  idiots!" 

"Oh,  but  Miss  Clarke  was  dreadfully  nice,"  said 
Hild,  feeling  suddenly  very  young. 

"Nice!  I  guess  so.  It  all  goes  to  bein'  nice — 
nice  rig-up,  nice  manners,  nice  pay.  I  guess  if 

142 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

every  woman  rigged  herself  up  in  a  white  cap  and 
stiff  apron  and  thermometer  and  strutted  around 
lookin'  fer  all  the  world  like  a  Mrs.  President  of  the 
U.  S.  A.  there'd  be  pretty  readin'  on  the  death- 
columns!" 

"Well,  I  think  you're  mean,  Miss  Massam.  I 
don't  know  how  I  should  have  lived  without  my 
nurse." 

"Lived!  I  tell  you  what,  Hild  Emery,  you'll  live 
as  long  as  the  Lord  lays  out  fer  you  to  live,  and  yer 
train'  nurse  may  be  pretty  close  to  the  Almighty,  but 
she  won't  stop  yer  dyin'  when  yer  time's  up.  It  do 
beat  all  what  the  young  folks  set  out  to  know  these 
days.  Seems  as  if  they  wa'n't  nothing  you  could 
teach  them." 

In  spite  of  the  bitterness  raised  by  the  question  of 
trained  nurses  Miss  Massam  entertained  Hild  for 
an  hour.  A  good  deal  was  said  about  Miss  Massam's 
one  experience  of  New  York  life.  She  had  been 
there  on  an  excursion  in  her  comparatively  youthful 
days  to  visit  a  friend  who  had  become,  in  the  giddy 
ebb  and  flow  of  affairs,  momentarily  very  prosperous. 
She  had  stayed  long  enough  to  pay  in  the  saving  of 
food  and  fuel  for  her  ticket,  and  the  experience  was 
a  never-failing  source  of  interest  to  her. 

"Yes,  I  did  go  to  the  theater,"  she  admitted. 
"Lots  of  folks — God-fearin,'  too — go  now,  but  in 
those  days  you  had  to  be  pretty  brave.  My  land, 
if  I  didn't  feel  wicked!  I  sat  in  them  seats  just 
shaking.  I  was  afeard  to  see  the  curtain  go  up. 

H3 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

When  it  begun  to  raise  as  slow  as  slow" — Miss 
Massam  dropped  her  sewing,  and  with  fixed  eye 
regarded  the  past — "I  could  'a'  screamed!" 

" But  you  didn't!    Was  it  as  bad  as  you  thought  ?" 

"Hild  Emery,  I  could  'a'  hired  a  buggy  and 
hitched  old  Kate  up  to  it,  an*  seen  the  same  any  day! 
They  was  a  haystack  'n'  a  old  farmhouse  for  all  the 
world  like  Hiram  Pratt's,  'n'  a  farmer  'n'  a  boy  worse 
at  whistlin'  than  our  Mert,  'n'  lots  o'  other  folks. 
The  only  thing  that  I  could  see  was  out  of  the  way 
was  a  scene  in  New  York  where  there  was  a  statue 
o'  a  bare  woman  set  up  right  in  the  middle  o'  the 
parlor,  and  the  man  on  the  stage  was  every  mite 
as  shocked  as  I  was — worse  shocked,  I  should 
say." 

"Oh,  Miss  Massam,  weren't  you  a  weeny  bit 
sorry  ?" 

"Wai,  I  says  to  Matildy,  when  the  play  was  over, 
says  I,  Matildy  Sawyer,  when  I've  got  my  mind  all 
made  up  to  ginger-ale  I  ain't  one  to  be  content  with 
well-water,  'n'  Matildy  she  looked  at  me  queer  'n'  she 
says  to  me,  'All  right,  Sary,'  says  she.  'We'll  go  this 
very  night  and  see  the  'Gay  Lady.'" 

"And  did  you?" 

Slowly  Miss  Massam  shook  her  gray  head. 

"I  got  a  telegram  when  I  got  home  to  say  as  how 
father  had  a  stroke  'n'  I  was  wanted  home." 

In  February  Mrs.  Carson  brought  Hild  the  great 
news  of  Chloe's  engagement  to  Alec  Masterman; 
and  early  in  March  the  young  lady,  having  done  with 

144 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

boarding-school,  came  home.  To  be  with  Chloe 
again  was  to  discredit  the  year's  experiences. 

Flushed  with  the  moment's  glamour,  they  talked 
fast  and  long  of  the  future,  immediate  and  remote. 
Alec,  won  completely  to  the  service  of  Chloe's  im- 
portance, was  the  boarding-school  girl's  ideal  of  a 
lover.  He  bombarded  Chloe's  hours  with  telegrams, 
letters,  presents,  and  visits.  He  came  on  from 
Boston  for  an  hour's  conversation  with  his  bride-to- 
be.  His  love  letters  covered  innumerable  sheets,  and 
favored  Hild  was  brought  to  awed  admiration  of  the 
poetic  nature  of  his  headings  and  signatures.  He 
gave  up  himself,  all  his  time,  and  all  his  money  to 
being  a  lover;  and,  as  Chloe  pointed  out,  some  such 
prodigality  of  devotion  would  be  required  of  him 
always.  Of  course,  in  their  New  York  life  he  would 
be  absent  eighteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four 
making  money  wherewith  to  pursue  his  wife's 
favor,  but  then  "Chloe,  for  one,  could  not  stand  a 
man  forever  around."  The  pair  were  to  sail  for 
England  soon  after  their  marriage,  and  come  back 
when  their  money  gave  out,  unless  "papa  would  fork 
over,"  and  on  their  return  an  allowance  from  both 
fathers  was  to  keep  them  until  Alec  was  "on  his 
feet,"  which  Chloe  hoped  would  be  soon,  "because, 
you  know,  you  really  can't  do  everything  on  ten 
thousand  a  year." 

Once  or  twice  Chloe  did  turn  her  attention  to  Hild's 
affairs  to  state  emphatically  that  "I  don't  know 
how  on  earth  Hild  had  stood  it  so  long,"  and  con- 

J45 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

fidently  to  take  for  granted  that  Hild  didn't  mean  to 
stand  it  any  longer.  All  Chloe  based  her  remarks 
upon  were  her  own  surmises,  for  Hild  remained  silent 
with  this  friend  upon  the  details  of  her  matrimonial 
venture.  It  was  not  difficult  to  cut  it  out  of  their 
intercourse,  for  Hild  seemed  to  them  both  at  most 
times  so  convincingly  the  girl  of  two  summers  ago. 

Alec  Masterman  spent  Easter  at  Beverly,  and,  to 
every  one's  surprise,  so  did  Simeon  Pierce.  The 
weather  was  heavenly  and,  for  April,  warm,  and 
Chloe  proposed  a  drive  to  a  neighboring  town,  where 
the  attraction  was  offered  of  meeting  a  school-friend 
of  hers  to  whom  she  wanted  to  exhibit  Alec.  Early 
on  the  Saturday  of  Holy  Week  Chloe  swept  in  upon 
Hild,  explaining  the  expedition. 

"You'll  come,  won't  you?"  she  asked. 

"I?    Oh,  Chloe,  you  and  Alec  don't  want  me." 

"Yes,  we  do.  We  thought  it  would  be  so  jolly, 
and  we'll  ask  Simeon,  too,  and  it  will  be  like  old 
times." 

"I  guess  I  better  not." 

"Oh,  Hild,  why  not?  There's  no  harm  in  it.  I 
think  you're  silly!  I  do!  As  if  Simeon  would  hurt 
you.  I'll  ask  your  mother."  Indeed,  Mrs.  Emery, 
who  had  heard  the  whole  discussion,  intervened  with 
a  "Do  go,  Hild.  It  will  do  you  good."  And  Hild, 
turning  away,  yielded,  feeling  none  the  less  that 
every  one  was  interfering  somewhat  stupidly  in  her 
affairs. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HHHE  town  where  Chloe's  friend  lived  was  not 
1  far  from  the  sea.  It  was  the  upgrowth  of  a 
fashionable  watering-place,  turned  political.  As, 
the  long  drive  behind  them,  they  neared  the  coast 
the  breath  of  salt  air  excited  Hild.  The  drive  had 
been  gay  and  glorious  in  the  spring  air,  and  the  four 
felt  irresponsible  and  free,  and  no  one  suggested 
that  the  Hild  of  the  moment  was  other  than  the 
Hild  of  the  fair  past. 

"Oh,  Chloe,  do  give  up  your  visit  and  let's  drive 
to  the  beach  instead,"  begged  Hild. 

"I'll  tell  you  what!"  Alec  Masterman  drew  the 
horses  to  a  standstill.  "You  and  Simeon  can  go. 
'Tisn't  far.  And  you  can  meet  us  outside  the 
Albion  House  at  five.  Go  ahead." 

Simeon  said  nothing;  but  Hild,  careless  for  the 
moment,  said  "Let's!"  and  before  further  reflection 
could  stay  her  they  had  changed  the  carriage  for  a 
trolley-car  and  were  careering  down  the  line  in  com- 
pany with  a  sleepy  urchin,  whose  bundles  slipped  one 
by  one  to  the  floor  as  the  car  jerked  its  way  onward. 

As  Alec  had  said,  it  was  not  far,  and  the  long  rocky 
coast  with  its  rare  intervals  of  beach  was  quickly 
reached.  There  was  no  one  about,  for  east  winds 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

still  swept  the  coast,  and  Simeon  had  to  find  a  well- 
sheltered  spot  before  they  could  rest  and  watch  the 
waves.  He  had  made  himself  disarmingly  and  im- 
personally agreeable  during  the  drive,  and  now  Hild 
became  suddenly  conscious  that  his  presence  was 
acceptable  to  her.  It  was  this  that  startled  her  to 
a  sense  that  she  had  been  foolish  to  come  at  all  on 
the  excursion,  and  more  foolish  to  embark  upon  such 
an  adventure  as  a  tete-a-tete  with  Simeon.  She 
was,  however,  tucked  comfortably  into  the  folds  of 
a  golf  cape,  her  shoulder  against  a  sun-baked  rock, 
and  the  sea,  beyond  the  breaking  white  near  her,  was 
blue  under  a  lazy  sky,  with  thin  clouds  lying  across 
its  distant  line.  Hild  loved  the  sea.  It  said  things 
her  soul  ached  to  say  and  could  not.  It  was  like  a 
great  poem  in  which  one  did  not  need  to  mark 
passages,  because  every  message  was  equally  sym- 
pathetic. It  was  like  a  beloved  shoulder  on  which 
one  could  bury  one's  eyes  and  shut  out  the 
world. 

"Hild,"  said  Simeon,  not  looking  at  her,  "I  have 
something  to  tell  you,  and  I'm  awfully  glad  you've 
given  me  this  chance.  It's  hard  to  say,  and  I  hope 
you  won't  think  I'm  meddling — I'd  hate  you  to 
think  that — only  your  friends  in  New  York  want  me 
to  tell  you  that  it  would  be  quite  easy  for  you  to  get 
a  divorce  at  any  time.  Your — Mr.  Kontze  has 
been  spoken  to,  and  he  won't  oppose  it  if  you  think 
best  to  start  action.  Under  the  law  of  desertion  and 
non-support  it  is  only  a  matter  of  time — 

148 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"But  he  hasn't  deserted  me,  and  he  would  support 
me—" 

"But  you  can  easily  prove  everything  necessary, 
and  he  won't  defend  the  suit." 

"But—" 

"Mme.  Cavari  saw  him — " 

"Oh!     Didn't  Jean  say  anything  else?" 

"I  believe  Mme.  Cavari  asked  if  he  wished  to  write 
to  you,  and  he  said  he  had  sent  you  a  message  already 
and  you  knew  all  he  had  to  say." 

"A  message?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  meant." 

Silence,  while  Hild  glanced  down  and  saw  the 
latch-key  hanging  from  her  chain. 

"Hild,  I  won't  touch  you  and  I  won't  look  at  you, 
but  I've  got  to  tell  you.  It's  all  been  wrong — 
wrong.  If  you  had  married  me — ah,  Hild,  my 
whole  life  would  have  been  yours — all  of  it.  I'd 
have  worked  for  you,  and  worked  hard  to  give  you 
everything.  Your  happiness — why,  it's  my  dream 
by  night  and  my  hope  by  day  to  make  you  happy. 
I  would  make  you  happy,  too.  Think  of  it,  Hild — 
only  think.  I'd  surround  you  with  love.  I'd  woo 
you  and  win  you.  Darling — darling!"  He  broke 
his  word,  turning  on  her  his  eyes,  bright  as  a  cat's. 
"Hild!"  he  said,  deeply;  and  the  sea  breaking 
noisily  below  seemed  to  seize  the  word  and  carry  it 
it  away  in  receding  foam. 

With  that  word  the  peace  of  Hild's  return  to  health 
came  to  an  end.  Her  mother  for  weeks  had  been 

149 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

speaking  small  words  with  intention,  her  friends 
had  been  hinting  what  they  dared  of  feelings  she 
had  divined,  she  herself  had  been  yielding  little 
by  little  the  purity  of  her  own  purpose,  and  now 
Simeon,  in  a  breath,  presented  to  her  the  end  to 
which  this  sequence  led.  Her  eyes  had  been  closed. 
She  had  felt  the  jarring  of  the  vehicle  beneath  her, 
but  the  ease  of  her  position  had  kept  her  from  caring 
where  she  was  carried.  Now  it  was  as  if  she  had 
suddenly  roused  herself  to  see  the  parting  of  the  ways 
before  her,  with  a  sign-post  marking  the  way. 
Should  she  close  her  eyes  again? 

If  Jean  had  practically  coincided  with  the  others 
who  urged  her  to  leave  him,  then,  indeed,  why  not? 
But  had  he  ?  In  her  heart  she  knew  what  his  thought 
had  been  in  sending  her  the  key.  When  she  was 
ready  to  use  it,  then  he  was  ready  for  her  to  return 
to  him,  not  on  the  terms  her  friends  would  have 
considered  possible,  but  on  his  own.  A  year  ago 
Simeon  had  urged  her  not  to  marry  Jean.  Now  he 
urged  her  to  leave  him.  Then,  led  by  duty  and  the 
glamour  of  a  high  aspiration,  but  perhaps  most  of  all 
by  fear,  she  had  resisted  him.  Now  the  impulse  to 
yield  was  stronger — she  knew  it.  Simeon  was 
young,  and  she  was  young,  and  she  knew  so  much 
more  than  a  year  ago,  and  with  a  surging  of  fear  she 
realized  that  if  she  divorced  Jean  she  would  marry 
Simeon.  It  was  inevitable.  And  he  would  spoil 
her  and  love  her,  and  she  and  Chloe  would  make 
youthful  years  gay  with  theaters  and  pretty  clothes 

150 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

— and — and — her  union  with  Jean  would  seem  like  a 
dreadful  dream.  Hild  covered  her  eyes.  But,  ah, 
what  a  vivid  dream!  And  suppose  some  time  she 
saw  Jean,  heard  him  play,  or  suppose  she  learned 
that  he  had  died.  Memories  of  him  and  her  life  with 
him  blotted  out  the  blue  sea  and  made  her  cry: 
"Simeon,  you've  spoiled  it  all.  I  was  happy,  and 
you've  spoiled  it." 

"Well,  Hild,  I  had  to.  Everything's  spoiled  for 
me.  Anyway,  you  might  be  sorry." 

"So  I  am;  only  what's  the  use  in  talking?" 
"Because  you  can  make  it  all  right." 
"Yes.     It  sounds  easy.     But  you  don't  know." 
"I  know  you've  been  unhappy,  and  I  could  make 
you  happy.     That's  what  I  know.     Look  at  Alec  and 
Chloe.     Hild,   it  might  be  us.     We've   more   than 
they  have  to  build  on.     He?     He's  loved  Chloe  six 
months.     I've  loved  you,  through  everything,  two 
years.     If  I  got  you  now — if  I  did !     It's  all  I  want — 
that  and  work,  which  means  money  to  give  you." 

"Is  that  all  work  means  to  you?"   she  asked, 
curiously.     "Honestly?" 
"Oh,  Hild,  Hild!"  he  vowed. 
"And  do  you  really  think  we'd  be  happy,  and  do 
you  think  that's  the  most  important  thing?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  Happy  in  the  right  way.  Why, 
Hild,  it's  a  sin  for  you  not  to  be  happy.  You're 
made  for  it." 

"If  you  saw  me  happy  with  somebody  else?" 
"I'd  die.     But  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  to  you  to 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

spoil  it.  What  I  won't  stand  is  to  see  you  wretched 
with  somebody  else,  and  everybody  feels  as  I  do. 
Hild,  won't  you  say  one  word  to  give  us  leave  to 
make  you  free?  Ask  your  mother.  Senator  Car- 
son's talked  to  her  about  it.  And,  Hild,  we'd  have 
to  wait,  but  some  day  I'd  come  and  get  you,  and  then 
— no  more  worry,  no  more  loneliness,  love.  Oh,  I 
can  promise  you  everything  your  heart  can  wish. 
Wait!  I'll  wait  so  patiently,  Hild — say  I  may  wait 
for  you.  It's  all  I  want  or  ask,  Hild!" 

Two  Hilds  heard  the  words — a  Hild  young  and 
impressionable,  one  who  rebelled  fiercely  against  the 
thought  of  those  months  of  troubled  marriage,  and 
who,  ravished  by  the  business  of  gay  nuptials 
between  Chloe  and  Alec,  yearned  for  like  things  for 
herself,  and  for  one  person  to  throne  her  in  his  life, 
a  queen.  The  other,  more  silent,  more  stern,  and, 
some  overjudge  of  her  soul  declared,  more  permanent, 
quelled  the  first  and  struck  fear  to  her  heart.  As  she 
struggled,  her  mood  chaotic,  Simeon  stepped  nearer 
and  would  have  taken  her  hand  had  she  not  shrunk 
back  against  the  rock,  the  thought  of  Jean  striking  a 
clear  shaft  of  white  light  through  her  mind.  Had 
she  not  married  him?  Had  she  not  lived  by  his 
side  for  months?  Had  he  not  shared  with  her  his 
all?  Had  he  not  even  accepted  her  into  that  inner 
sanctuary,  where  he  created  great  music?  Suffer! 
Simeon  talked  of  suffering.  Jean  had  not  talked  of 
it,  yet  had  she  not  seen  him  in  agony  of  soul  too  deep 
and  rending  for  any  words?  There  was  much  in 

152 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

him  she  did  not  understand,  much  she  could  never 
understand,  but  all  she  could  charge  him  with  re- 
specting herself  she  did  understand  and  could,  after 
all,  forgive.  A  child's  quick  fury  come  and  gone 
in  a  flash,  and  a  rooted  belief  that  as  his  wife  she  was 
his — the  servant  of  his  life.  He  needed  her,  she 
knew  it  remorsefully,  and  she  was  playing  here  with 
the  idea  of  marrying  some  one  else,  of  having  several 
maids  and  pretty  clothes  and  a  lover.  She  meant 
it  to  be  legal — ah,  yes.  But  would  it  be  any  better 
for  that?  One  married — yes,  she  saw  the  awful- 
ness  of  it  now.  One  undertook  the  responsibility 
of  a  man's  future.  Could  a  time  ever  come  when  a 
woman  might  say,  "Now  he  no  longer  needs  me; 
I  can  do  nothing  for  him,  and  never  shall  be  able  to 
again.  Now  I  can  lay  this  burden  down"?  Mean- 
time Jean,  she  knew,  worked  on  his  opera  and  ate 
boiled  eggs  and  cold  potatoes.  And  there  dangled 
the  latch-key,  pathetic,  at  her  waist.  She  had 
known  all  the  time  what  it  meant,  and  yet  she  had 
let  it  go  and  had  not  even  written. 

"Oh,  I  am  horrid!"  she  said  to  Simeon,  covering 
her  face. 

"Hild,  don't!" 

"Well,  I  do!  I  am  horrid.  He's  done  nothing. 
He's  a  genius,  and  sometimes  he  goes  mad  over 
some  tiny  thing.  He  needs  some  one  to  look  after 
him.  And  besides,  Simeon" — she  straightened  her- 
self and  looked  far  out  to  sea,  hating  to  cut  off  her 
sight  of  closer  and  pleasanter  things,  but  not  daring 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

to  hesitate — "besides,  I  don't  think — no,  I  don't 
think  that  there's  anything  on  earth  so  beautiful 
as — "  She  was  thinking  of  the  hours  she  had  spent 
listening  to  the  language  beyonds  words,  the  music 
Jean  evoked  for  her;  but,  looking  at  Simeon,  she  saw 
he  did  not  understand,  and  finished,  awkwardly, 
"When  we  play  together,  I  mean." 

"And  that  makes  up  for  the  rest?" 

"Not  exactly.  To  one  side  of  me  that  doesn't 
matter;  to  the  other  side  it's  all  that  matters. 
Somehow  I  think  the  last  is  the  one  that  counts." 

"But,  Hild,  when  he  holds  you,  then  don't  you 
think  of  life  with  love?  Don't  you  think  of  me?" 

"No,  no!"  She  had  grown  white,  and  then  sud- 
denly she  said:  "But  if  you  kissed  me  now — or 
to-night — or  any  time — I  should  think  of  Jean 
playing  something  sad  and  wild,  and — oh,  I'm 
horrid.  I'm  miserable.  I've  got  to  go  back." 

"Hild,  you'll  break  my  heart." 

"No — besides,  that's  not  my  business.  I'm  well 
now — well  and  strong.  I'll  go  home." 

"Home?" 

"Yes.     Home." 

They  walked  together  over  the  uneven  beach  and 
the  wind  blew  Hild's  veil  across  her  cheek,  shutting 
out  Simeon's  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  drive  home  was  black  and  silent  and,  for 
Hild,  dreadful.  Simeon  drove;  and  Alec  and 
Chloe,  on  the  back  seat,  whispered  and  warmed 
beneath  the  cloak  of  darkness.  Moment  after  mo- 
ment brought  new  doubts  and  fears  to  Hild,  like 
inky  spots  on  a  bright  background. 

A  hope,  cherished,  but  unrecognized,  now  stood 
before  a  conscience  that  judged  it  and  would  not  be 
duped.  It  was  to  instinct,  not  reason,  that  this 
judge  went  for  wisdom. 

She  had  no  means  of  knowing  that  Jean  wanted 
her  back.  He  had  sent  her  no  word  to  say  so,  and 
the  key  was  all  she  had  to  reassure  her.  It  seemed 
rash,  it  seemed  even  ridiculous,  to  creep  back  to  his 
side,  like  a  cat  that  has  been  fed  and  wants  to  be 
fed  again.  Suppose  he  turned  her  away.  Her 
flesh  burned  at  the  thought. 

Things  came  to  her,  bits  of  knowledge,  isolated, 
but  which  flew  like  filings  to  a  magnet,  piecing 
out  her  decision.  She  saw  what  hesitation  would 
mean.  Every  word  spoken  to  her,  every  happy 
moment  of  her  present  existence,  seemed  to  tempt 
her  a  step  farther  from  Jean.  During  the  drive 
Simeon  said  once: 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"I'm  awfully  sorry.  Say,  Hild,  I  oughtn't  to 
have  said  so  much.  Promise  me  you'll  forget. 
Don't  go  back  yet.  I  won't  bother  you.  Honest! 
I'm  going  away.  I'll  go  to-morrow  if  you'd  rather. 
Don't  make  me  think  I've  sent  you  back  before 
you're  strong." 

"I'm  strong  enough,"  Hild  had  answered.  She 
knew  his  thought.  He  believed  that  his  attack  had 
been  premature.  He  hoped  that  time  would  accom- 
plish what  words  could  not.  She  acknowledged  him 
justified.  If  he  had  not  spoken  she  would  not  so 
soon  have  realized  his  drift.  If  she  had  waited  to 
realize  it  later,  would  her  revulsion  from  it  have  been 
complete?  Was  it  complete  now? 

She  examined  herself.  She  put  aside  as  well  as 
she  could  any  but  her  own  convictions.  Had  she 
through  her  own  fault  come  to  this  dangerous  mo- 
ment? She  was  not  sure.  But  she  felt  the  danger, 
knew  that  it  was  decisive,  and  urged  herself  to  com- 
bat it.  Facing  a  future,  however  remote,  when  the 
thought  of  Jean  would  be  peculiar  torment,  she  was 
nerved  to  action.  She  knew,  so  she  thought,  the 
worst  of  life  with  Jean.  The  worst  of  a  life  un- 
faithful to  him  she  feared  as  the  unknown  is  feared. 

Stinging  and  enduring  came  another  thought. 
Life  with  Jean  was  valuable.  She  might  not  be 
equal  to  it,  but,  though  it  might  be  weak  to  fail,  it 
was  weaker  not  to  aim  at  success.  To  stand  by 
him  and  minister  to  him  was  to  share  with  him  an 
endeavor  so  splendid  as  to  raise  the  meanest  spirit. 

156 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

She  had  felt  this,  known  it,  never  for  a  moment 
forgotten  it  from  the  night  when  she  returned  from 
Annanville  to  the  day  of  their  separation.  It  had 
held  her  to  her  place,  given  her  courage,  and  on  it 
her  mind  had  rested.  To  nothing  else  could  she  turn 
with  conviction.  She  could  offer  half  a  Hild  to 
ease  and  happiness.  Hild,  whole  and  eager,  belonged 
to  Jean. 

When  the  party  left  her  at  her  gate  she  ran  into 
the  house  and  sprang  upon  her  mother,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  brilliant  eyes,  as  if  she  were  full  of  good 
news. 

"I  thought  it  would  do  you  good,  Hild,"  said 
Mrs.  Emery,  satisfied.  She  stood  by  while  Hild 
ate  a  lunch  of  hot  bread  and  cereals  and  drank  coffee. 
When  the  girl  had  finished,  Mrs.  Emery  put  the 
things  on  a  tray,  and  the  two  made  the  room  orderly. 
Then  they  went  together  into  the  sitting-room. 

"You  do  look  well!"  said  Mrs.  Emery. 

"Mama,"  said  Hild,  "are  you  sorry  you  left  my 
father?" 

"Hild,  how  can  you!" 

"Well,  I've  often  wondered.  I  think  a  woman 
most  always  is.  Mama — I'm  going  back." 

Mrs.  Emery  dropped  the  knitting  she  had  picked 
up. 

"I've  got  to,"  said  Hild,  not  thinking  of  her 
mother. 

"Hild,  you'll  break  my  heart." 

It  all  came  out  then,  and  Hild  listened  and 
157 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

burned.  Senator  Carson  had  had  Jean  approached 
in  the  matter  of  a  divorce.  Jean  could  raise  no 
objection.  It  would  all  be  most  simple,  and  the 
idea  had  been  to  say  nothing  to  Hild  until  affairs 
were  in  train.  All  Hild  need  do  was  to  set  her 
hand  to  paper,  say  a  few  words,  and  she  was  free. 
To  return  to  Jean,  even  if  she  did  not  remain  with 
him,  would  be  fatal  to  this  scheme  and  make  escape 
much  more  difficult.  Hild  was  young  and  did  not 
know  what  was  best.  Senator  Carson,  Mrs.  Carson, 
all  Hild's  friends  knew  and  approved  the  plan.  She 
must  abide  by  their  decision.  It  was  impossible 
for  her  to  submit  herself  to  insult  and  ill  treatment. 
Did  Hild  wish  to  kill  her  mother?  Did  she  wish  to 
grovel  before  a  man  who  might,  quite  probably, 
repeat  a  former  performance  and  slam  his  door  in 
her  face  ?  Was  this  pride  ?  Was  it  even  decency  ? 

Hild,  cooling,  refused  to  say  what  it  was,  but  re- 
peated her  decision. 

Very  well.  Did  Hild  know  that  Jean  had  been 
seen  with  most  disreputable  characters?  Did  she 
know  that  he  had  been  found,  among  others,  in  a  den 
of  anarchists,  and  might  have  been  arrested  as 
easily  as  not?  Did  she  know  that  he  was  on  very 
intimate  terms  with  a  young  woman  named  Rale? 
Did  she  care  to  have  her  mother  go  into  her  own 
story  of  disillusion  and  despair? 

When  tears  quenched  eloquence  Hild  spoke: 
"Mama,  do  you  want  to  see  me  wretched?" 
"Hild!"     This  was  managed  between  sobs. 
158 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"Then,  if  you  don't,  leave  me  alone.  I  could 
be  wretched.  I  could  die  of  it.  I  could — do  some- 
thing awful.  I  could.  Leave  me  alone." 

"Hild,  you  were  wretched  with  Jean." 

"At  first  I  was."  Hild  looked  at  her  mother 
and  said  what  was  in  her  mind.  "That  was  not  his 
fault." 

"You  will  be  again.     You'll  never  be  happy." 

"Maybe  not.  There's  no  use  talking,  though. 
I'm  going  back." 

"Why,  Hild,  why?" 

"Because  I'm  afraid." 

"Afraid?    Of  what?" 

Hild  did  not  know. 

"I  think — of  awful  moments." 

"Remorse  for  a  man  who  has  shut  his  door  in  your 
face?" 

"Maybe  it's  that." 

"Hild,  you  are  crazy." 

To  this  Hild  made  no  answer.  For  the  first  time 
she  saw  that  a  letter  lay  on  a  table  near  the  door. 
Usually  she  looked  for  letters.  To-night  she  had 
been  too  preoccupied.  She  tore  open  the  envelope 
and  read: 

DEAR  HILD, — Can  you  give  me  your  husband's  address? 
Mr.  Hanbury  wants  to  find  him,  and  we  can't  get  any 
trace  of  him.  He's  left  Eighty-third  Street.  I  hear  from 
the  woman  who  had  the  flat  below  that  he  had  been  out  of 
work  for  a  long  time  before  he  left.  I  have  waited, 
thinking  Art  might  look  in  on  me,  but  he  seems  to  have 

159 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

vanished,  too.  I  haven't  seen  him  for  two  weeks.  He  is 
sure  to  know  where  Jean  is.  Everybody's  down  on  Jean, 
and  Mme.  Cavari  refused  to  see  him  when  he  called  about 
the  "  Gondola."  You  know  she  was  going  to  introduce  him 
to  Galby.  So  I  reckon  he's  down  on  his  luck.  I  hear 
you're  going  to  stay  where  you're  well  off.  That's  right. 
Jean  is  going  from  bad  to  worse,  and  there's  no  reason  for 
you  to  go,  too.  If  you  know  where  he  is,  be  sure  to 
write. 

Yours, 

MARCIA. 

Reading  the  letter,  and  standing  afterward  reading 
it  again  on  the  blank  space  of  the  wall,  Hild's  head 
was  full  of  hurrying  thoughts  that  gave  one  another 
no  mercy,  but  pushed  and  shoved  in  dreadful  dis- 
order. She  waited,  not  understanding  what  her 
mother  was  saying.  At  last  moral  forces,  like 
policemen  in  a  crowd,  stilled  the  riot,  and,  one  by 
one,  with  time  to  look  them  in  the  face,  she  saw  the 
new  facts  which  Marcia's  letter  had  added  to  the 
situation. 

Jean,  alone,  out  of  work,  forsaken  by  his  friends 
on  her  account!  She  must  find  him,  must  rescue 
him.  Suppose,  indeed,  he  should  bend  to  fate.  He 
was  misunderstood,  ill  treated,  and  alone,  and  he  was 
worth  a  hundred  lives  like  Hild's.  She  knew  this, 
as  others  did  not,  and  the  responsibility  was,  there- 
fore, hers.  If  she  could  do  nothing  for  Jean,  still 
she  was  bound  to  act. 

"Mother  dear,"  she  said,  "I'll  have  to  go  to- 
morrow." 

160 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

She  did  not  even  know  that  Mrs.  Emery,  protesting, 
followed  her  to  her  room.  She  packed  her  trunk  with 
steady  hands,  and  when  at  last  her  mother  left  her 
she  undressed  and  went  to  a  bed  on  which  she  slept 
quietly  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


"\URING  the  days  of  Hild's  illness  Jean  had  gone 
}  to  the  Rales  for  news  of  her.     Marcia  knew 


why  he  came,  and  gave  out  scraps  of  information, 
not  too  generously.  When  Hild  had  recovered  and 
gone  to  Beverly  Jean's  visits  to  Marcia  ceased. 

He  had  counted  on  placing  his  "Gondola" 
symphony  with  Galby  and  getting  a  hearing.  But 
Mme.  Cavari  had  refused  to  see  him.  Everett  was 
away,  and  he  had  been  out  of  regular  work  for  many 
weeks.  The  Rales  had  stood  by  him  when  he  was  in 
a  frame  of  mind  to  lose  every  friend.  He  offended 
those  whom  he  knew.  No  one  would  give  him  any- 
thing to  do.  "He  either  drinks  or  else  he's  luny," 
briefly  objected  one  man,  when  Marcia  Rale  spoke 
of  Jean's  gifts. 

Then  Jean  pulled  up.  He  had  given  his  passion 
for  Hild  that  which  was  not  his  own  to  give.  She 
was  his  wife.  If  she  came  back  to  take  her  place 
in  his  life  he  would  receive  her  with  a  joy  he  forbade 
himself  to  imagine.  If  she  did  not  come  back  he 
could  live  without  her.  He  had  sent  her  a  message 
in  the  key.  She  would  understand.  If  she  were 
ready  to  come  back  on  his  terms  she  would  come  in 
time.  He  would  not  seek  her;  he  would  not  even 

162 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

have  her  except  on  his  conditions.  Life  might  be 
sinister,  and  he  might  suffer,  but  he  was  a  privileged 
messenger  pressing  through  hostile  forces  to  a  goal. 

One  evening  in  March,  before  he  had  left  his  flat, 
Marcia  came  to  see  him.  He  let  her  in,  and  she  sat 
down  in  Hild's  chair,  which  was  covered  with  dust. 
She  looked  about  her  on  Hild's  absence  made  visible. 
Then  she  said: 

"  Isn't  Hild  coming ;  back  ?" 

Jean  fingered  his  pipe. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  he  tossed  her.  "Women — they 
do  right  —  they  do  wrong.  To  go  further,  it  is  to 
be  in  a  labyrinth,  is  it  not  ? — such  a  foolish  labyrinth. 
Who  would  waste  time  so?  Hild — I  think  she  is  a 
good  woman.  I  think  she  will  come  back."  He  put 
his  empty  pipe  between  his  lips. 

"Why  don't  you  ever  come  to  see  us  any  more?" 
Marcia  asked,  looking  at  the  muddy  tip  of  her  boot. 

"Arthur — he  comes  to  see  me.  That  is  no 
trouble." 

Marcia  looked  up. 

"You  used  to  come." 

"That  is  true."  Jean's  glance  was  puzzled.  "I 
used  to,  but  I  do  not.  These  are  facts.  I  cannot 
explain  them.  Why  should  I  ?" 

"It's  only  that — I'd  like  you  to  come." 

"So.  It  requires  a  very  long  time  to  say  what  it 
is  you  want." 

Marcia  drew  back,  and  advanced  along  another 
line. 

163 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  asked. 

Jean  shrugged.     "Can  you  not  see?" 

"Have  you  tried  to  get  work?" 

"Have  I  tried!  That — it  is  what  you  call  a  joke. 
Witness!"  He  extended  a  shattered  boot. 

"What  has  become  of  Everett?" 

"Mr.  Everett — he  is  in  England.  He  is  very 
busy.  Mme.  Cavari — she  does  not  like  me  any 
more.  It  is  because  she  likes  Hild.  I  see  that,  but 
I  do  not  understand  it.  I  have  allowed  myself  to 
wonder.  The  minds  of  people  are  mysterious.  Yes, 
I  have  discovered  it.  Mme.  Cavari — she  likes  me 
because  I  can  riddle,  not  because  I  am  a  good  hus- 
band to  my  wife.  No!  Then  I  marry  Hild,  and 
she  thinks  Hild  is  pretty  and  nice.  Is  that  a  reason 
for  liking  me  no  longer?  Can  I  not  still  fiddle?  I 
do  not  understand.  But  it  is  so.  She  will  not  see 
me.  Mr.  Galby,  he  will  not  read  my  score." 

Marcia,  irrelevant,  picked  up  the  empty  pipe. 

"Have  you  no  tobacco?" 

Jean  shrugged. 

Marcia  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  where 
reflections,  lights,  and  blackness  lay  flat  before  her 
eyes.  When  she  came  back  she  was  bare  of  the 
shield  which  she  wore  in  a  ravening  world.  Jean, 
who  had  an  eye  for  such  things,  saw  the  discarding 
of  defense. 

"Shall  I  share  with  you?"  she  asked;  and  then,  in 
a  lower  voice,  she  added,  "May  I?" 

"Why?" 

164 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

She  looked  at  her  gloves,  which  were  too  large  and 
needed  darning. 

"I'd  like  it.  We're  both  unlucky.  Hild  has 
given  you  up.  You'll  soon  be  on  your  feet  again,  and 
forget  all  about  me.  I'd  expect  that.  Don't  think 
I'd  look  for  gratitude.  I  know  better." 

Jean  remaining  silent,  she  went  on,  pleading 
awkwardly. 

"I'd  like  to  have  you  for  a  friend  for  a  while. 
And  I'd  like  to  think  I'd  stepped  in  and  helped  when 
others  didn't — when  Hild  didn't.  It  would  be  a  sort 
of  getting  ahead  of  the  world  that  had  often  enough 
gotten  ahead  of  me.  You  ought  to  understand!" 

"Understand?  Yes,  I  understand  what  you  say. 
It  is  what  you  mean  I  do  not  understand.  You  and 
I  could  not  be  friends.  I  do  not  like  you." 

"Not  at  all.     On  no  terms?" 

"No.  You  are  like  this."  He  held  his  two  hands 
an  inch  apart.  "Small — is  it?  You  have  the  ideas 
of  a  peddler.  You  buy  life  with  a  bad  coin  and  expect 
all  in  exchange!  Some  day  I  should  hear  you  play 
Beethoven,  and  then  I  should  go  mad." 

Marcia  watched  him. 

"If  I  leave  out  the  friendship  will  you  take  my 
help?" 

"No.     If  you  were  a  man — yes." 

"But  why?" 

"It  is  best  to  have  no  dealings  with  women.  I 
have  found  it  so.  You  think  it  is  over,  you  have 
forgotten,  and  then  one  day — zip — whoof — there  is 

165 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

trouble — oh,  but  trouble!  'Have  you  forgotten 
this?  Do  you  remember  that?'  Ah,  but  foolish- 
ness! Of  course  you  have  forgotten,  of  course  you 
do  not  remember.  Why  should  you?  You  have 
other  thoughts,  other  business.  Episodes — they 
come,  they  go.  Shall  you  carry  them  like  a  knap- 
sack growing  ever  heavier  through  life?  For  me, 
I  do  not  understand  women,  and  will  not  deal  with 
them.  No!  You  are  thirsty.  You  see  a  full  bottle 
— it  seems  pleasant.  You  drink — so.  It  may  be 
wine,  but  it  may  be  poison.  No,  I  am  no  chemist, 
and  I  do  not  understand  women.  I  will  not  drink." 
"I  see.  Then  why  marry  a  woman?" 
"Marry?  A  man  must  have  one  woman.  That 
is  unlucky — but  it  is  so.  They  are  pleasant  to  the 
eye — and  they  are  made  to  be  useful.  You  are 
intelligent,  you  can  see  that." 

"Suppose  Hild  never  came  back?" 
"Suppose?     Why  should  I  suppose?" 
"Would  some  one  replace  her?" 
"Perhaps — perhaps   not.     I   cannot  be   troubled 
to  inquire." 

"She  is  like  any  other  woman." 
"No — Hild — she  is  not  like  you." 
"But  there  are  others  to  suit  you  as  well?" 
Jean   glanced   away  from   Marcia.     He   did   not 
answer.     He  was  thinking  of  Hild.    He  did  not  know 
if  other  women  held  for  other  men  the  imperishable 
beauty  which  Hild  represented  to  him.     It  was  hard 
to  believe.    It  was  something  apart  from  the  material, 

166 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

but  touching  it  at  every  point  and  informing  it 
as  the  hidden  thought  informs  a  series  of  written 
words.  It  even  impregnated  her  surroundings,  this 
room  which  she  had  tended,  where  they  had  lived. 
It  was  free  and  pervading,  painfully  sweetening  life 
for  him  even  in  these  dreary  days.  It  was  scarcely 
to  be  credited,  but  it  was  true.  And  now  Marcia 
asked  him  if  Hild  could  be  replaced  by  another, 
when  the  very  thought  of  a  woman  moving  about 
in  these  rooms  sickened  him,  when  the  sight  of 
Marcia  occupying  Hild's  chair  was  like  a  beloved 
melody  played  on  a  badly  tuned  instrument. 

"Look  here,  Jean,"  Marcia  said,  taking  courage 
in  his  silence,  "you  could  come  and  live  with  Arthur 
and  me,  and  I'd  look  after  you  as  I  do  him.  I'm 
used  to  it,  and  I'd  like  it.  I  wouldn't  ask  anything 
in  exchange,  not  one  thing.  I  mean  it." 

"You  would  not  ask  me  to  make  love  to  you — 
no?"  asked  Jean.  "That  is  what  you  think.  Maybe 
you  would — maybe  you  wouldn't.  I  do  not  know. 
I  do  not  intend  to  discover." 

"Well,  and  if  I  did!"  Marcia  let  slip  from  her 
grasp  the  reins  that  held  a  hundred  careering  steeds 
of  impulse.  They  swept  her  along,  to  disaster  if 
chance  so  decreed. 

"Precisely!"  said  Jean.  "If  you  did!  You  have 
said  it!" 

"If  I  did,  having  made  your  comfort,  having 
proved  that  I  could  do  what  pretty  Hild  can't,  what 
you  say  to  me?  It  seems  possible  to  me, 
167 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

It  seems  not  too  much  to  hope  even  from  a  life 
that's  treated  me  like  this  one.  I  fell  in  love  with  you, 
and  I've  suffered  for  it.  You  thought  no  more  of 
me  than  your  old  coat  that  you  don't  need  any  more. 
But  I  had  the  pain  of  hoping.  Oh  yes,  I  had  that. 
You're  a  brute  to  women,  you  know,  and  always 
would  be,  and  you'd  make  any  woman  wretched. 
But  I'd  have  a  minute  or  two,  perhaps,  to  under- 
stand happiness  in.  It  can't  be  too  much  to  ask. 
It  can't!  It  can't!"  She  stamped  her  foot,  and  the 
yellow  light  in  her  eyes  caught  Jean's  glance. 

"So!"  said  Jean.  "It  is  well  I  know.  It  is  your 
idea  to  help  me  to  a  cheese  that  the  trap  may  spring 
on  my  neck,  like  an  unfortunate  mouse  I  once  ob- 
served. I  felt  sympathy  for  that  mouse.  I  think, 
if  it  should  have  happened  that  I  had  been  caught, 
yes,  I  think  the  mouse  would  have  felt  sympathy 
for  me!" 

"I  wish  you  were  starving  —  or  dead  !"  said 
Marcia. 

"It  is  not  agreeable  to  starve,"  said  Jean,  "but 
I  think  it  is  very  simple  to  be  dead.  Many  people 
are.  They  seem  not  to  mind  it.  They  do  not  come 
back.  I  notice  that." 

Marcia  reached  to  gather  in  runaway  emotions. 

"I'd  have  helped  you,"  she  said,  "and  I'd  have 
been  a  fool  for  my  pains.  They  say  women  on 
lonely  farms  go  mad  inside  of  a  few  years.  Well, 
I'm  as  lonely  as  that,  and  I  reckon  I'm  going  mad. 
One  thing  I  can  tell  you — leave  Art  alone,  You're 

168 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

egging  him  on.  I  know  it.  If  he  comes  to  trouble 
through  you — if  he  does !" 

"It  is  only  mere  silliness  you  talk,"  Jean  mur- 
mured, resigned. 

"It's  a  warning,  that's  what  it  is,"  said  Marcia. 
"Tell  him  not  to  come  here  any  more." 

"He  comes  to  listen  to  my  music." 

"Yes,  and  then  he's  worked  up  to  a  passion,  and 
you  and  he  go  out  to  your  low  clubs,  and  there  are 
speeches  and  talk,  and  he  can't  sleep  for  hating 
lucky  men  who  make  money  out  of  other  people's 
misery.  Wouldn't  you  or  I  do  it  if  we  could?  I 
tell  you,  leave  Art  alone." 

She  went  with  no  more  good-by  than  this,  and  the 
neglected  little  room,  where  Jean  was  nearest  Hild, 
seemed  to  shake  off  her  presence  as  a  child  will  rub 
away  a  kiss. 

It  was  late  the  same  night  that  Arthur  Rale  found 
Jean  lying  face  downward  on  his  divan,  his  fiddle 
under  his  hand,  the  bow  dropped  to  the  floor.  Mar- 
cia had  left  the  door  ajar,  and  Rale  had  come  to 
Jean's  side  unnoticed.  The  young  man  did  not 
speak  till  Jean  felt  his  presence  and  looked  up. 
Then  he  said: 

"  It  shows  what  sort  of  a  world  it  is — the  treatment 
it  gives  a  man  like  you." 

Jean  sat  up,  disordered  and  dulled  by  the  hour  he 
had  spent  with  his  thoughts. 

"I  cannot  make  music  to-night,"  he  said.  "I  can- 
not even  give  you  supper.  You  had  better  go  away." 

169 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"I  know  a  place,"  said  Rale,  slowly,  "where  you 
could  anyway  get  some  supper  by  playing  a  tune 
or  two.  I  often  go.  If  you  amuse  the  people  the 
man  who  owns  the  place  will  give  you  something  to 
eat,  and  sometimes  the  crowd  is  generous.  They're 
a  rough  lot,  if  you  don't  mind  that — " 

Jean  rose. 

"I  am  hungry.  I  will  go,  I  believe" — he  con- 
sidered— "yes,  I  would  play  to  hogs  for  their  husks. 
I  would  play  for  a  loaf  of  bread  at  a  woman's  party. 
So  have  I  descended.  I  do  not  understand  why 
music  is  given  to  man,  who  is  a  stomach." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

r  1  ^HE  country  was  in  a  ferment  of  indignation, 
1  and,  although  no  one  was  very  clear  as  to  the 
trouble,  it  was  evident  to  every  one  that  trouble 
was  there.  People  quoted,  more  or  less  accurately, 
the  latest  editorial  they  had  read,  and  contradicted 
one  another  with  the  authority  of  conviction. 
Meetings  of  working-men  were  ruddy  affairs,  and 
ladies  shivered  at  the  prospect  of  civil  war  and 
starvation. 

Hanbury  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  the 
desired  of  reporters;  a  name  to  many  and  a  reality 
to  the  rest.  Nellie  Cavari  rarely  saw  him,  and  when 
she  did  it  was  to  sing  to  him,  feed  him,  chatter  to 
him  of  nothing  at  all,  never  to  talk  to  him  of  the 
things  he  never  for  a  moment  forgot.  There  was, 
however,  a  night  on  which  he  himself  referred  to  the 
matter  on  which  his  soul  was  bent. 

The  two  were  alone  late  one  night  after  the  play, 
and  Cavari  had  been  at  the  piano  singing  softly  songs 
she  knew  he  loved  when  he  spoke  abruptly: 

"Where  is  Jean  Kontze?" 

Cavari  raised  startled  eyes. 

"I  don't  know.     Why?" 

"Because  I  need  him."  Hanbury  got  to  his  feet, 
12  171 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

as  he  always  did  when  he  was  moved  by  strong 
thought. 

"You  need — "     Cavari  paused  in  time. 

"I  need  him.  I've  come  on  a  thing  that  is  like  a 
gift  out  of  the  eternal.  A  boy  I've  known  and 
loved  has  died  and  left  to  me  a  manuscript  of  truth 
such  as  I've  tried  to  express  and  failed.  It's  won- 
derful. It  will  work  wonders.  Now  is  the  time  for 
wonders.  Wonders  may  save  us.  Nothing  else 
will.  I  want  the  thing  set  to  music.  I've  been 
thinking  of  it  for  days,  but  only  to-night  I  thought 
of  Kontze.  He  is  the  person  to  do  it.  Where  is  he  ?" 

Mme.  Cavari  bent  her  brow  in  trouble. 

"I'm  afraid  no  one  knows,"  she  said.  "He  has  left 
his  flat,  Marcia  told  me.  We  were  all  annoyed  with 
him,  you  know." 

Hanbury  looked  at  her.  "You  were  going  to  get 
him  a  chance  to  play  for  Galby,"  he  reminded  her. 

"Yes,  but—" 

"You  had  promised  him." 

"I'm  afraid  I  did  wrong.  I  refused  to  see  him," 
admitted  Cavari,  thoughtfully. 

"  Because  of  Hild  ?"  asked  Hanbury. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Nellie.  "You  know  how  he  used 
her." 

"I  know  he  is  a  man  who  has  had  much  to  bear." 

Seeing  that  he  was  tired  and  disappointed,  Cavari 
said  no  more,  but  she  made  careful  inquiries  from 
Marcia  and  every  one  who  would  be  likely  to  know, 
hoping  to  locate  Jean.  Already  she  had  begun  to 

172 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

repent  of  her  hastiness  in  so  completely  refusing  her 
assistance  to  him  when,  after  all,  she  had  promised 
it.  She  tried  to  find  him,  increasingly  eager  to  suc- 
ceed as  she  found  the  task  more  difficult  than  she 
had  for  a  moment  anticipated.  That  Hanbury  was 
set  upon  his  scheme  of  the  opera  she  could  see,  for  he 
constantly  asked  her  for  any  news  of  her  quest. 
It  was  he  who  finally  suggested  writing  to  Hild,  and 
it  was  at  his  request  that  Marcia  did  so. 

The  answer  to  this  communication  was  not  such 
as  any  one  had  anticipated.  Hild  appeared  at 
Cavari's  door  on  a  spring  evening  and  asked  simply 
to  be  taken  in.  Hanbury  was  present  at  the  inter- 
view between  the  friends  and  saw  Hild  cast  herself 
upon  Nellie's  kindness,  leaping  miraculously  a  dis- 
approval which  stood  visibly  in  the  way  of  sympathy. 
Conversation  came  to  nothing  but  kisses,  and  the 
pleading  of  Hild's  eyes  had  their  way,  and  Hild  was 
welcomed,  comforted,  and  put  to  bed. 

Success  with  Cavari  was  followed  by  a  weary  series 
of  failures  in  everything  else.  Hild  had  hoped  that 
some  one  in  the  house  where  she  had  lived  with  Jean 
would  certainly  be  able  to  tell  her  where  he  had  gone, 
or,  failing  that,  that  Arthur  Rale  would  turn  up  to 
help  her.  Neither  hope  proved  justified.  She  had 
also  been  confident  of  finding  work,  but  one  piece  of 
bad  luck  succeeded  another,  and  she  was  still  idle, 
fed  by  her  friends,  when  three  weeks  had  passed  in 
search  for  Jean.  Her  mother  wrote  indignant  letters, 
not  without  a  trace  of  satisfaction  that  the  worst  of 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

her  predictions  had  been  fulfilled.  Marcia  Rale  did 
not  hesitate  to  sneer  at  Hild's  plight.  Even  Mme. 
Cavari,  though  full  of  kindness,  let  fall  words  that, 
had  they  dropped  into  the  cup  of  Hild's  determina- 
tion, would  have  soon  diluted  it  to  a  feeble  mixture. 
For  some  reason,  however,  Hild  seemed  out  of  reach 
of  influence.  It  was  her  own  pride  that  pulled 
her  different  ways,  and  it  was  fear  of  herself  that 
closed  gates  on  the  path  behind  her  as  she  progressed. 
A  few  words  with  Hanbury  had  a  message  for  her, 
while  other  words  were  only  half  heard  and  not  at 
all  remembered.  She  happened  to  find  him  alone 
one  day  in  Cavari's  sitting-room,  and  sat  down  be- 
side him,  not  according  to  her  wont,  feeling  glad  that 
he  was  there.  He  asked  her,  after  a  pause,  if  she 
had  any  news  of  Jean,  and  when  she  shook  her  head 
he  leaned  toward  her  with  eyes  on  her  that  gathered 
her  sharply  to  him  and  said,  "Don't  give  up." 

"I  can't,"  Hild  answered,  as  if  under  torture  she 
were  asked  to  tell  what  she  did  not  know. 

"That's  right,"  he  told  her.  "You've  got  some- 
thing to  follow.  Do  you  believe  me  when  I  say 
that  if  you  follow  bravely  you'll  get  all  there  is  to 
get  of  earth  and  your  share  of  heaven  ?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Hild. 

"We're  comrades,"  said  Hanbury;  and,  though 
Hild  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  his  words  stayed 
by  her  as  long  as  she  lived. 

On  that  same  evening  she  went  to  see  if  Marcia  had 
heard  anything  of  her  brother,  and  came  upon  the 

174 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

two  together.  At  sight  of  Arthur  Rale  Hild  made  a 
backward  step  and  stood  looking  at  him.  Marcia 
waited,  smiling,  and  it  was  a  long  time  to  Hild  before 
the  answer  came  to  her  slow  question.  "No,  I  don't 
know  where  he  is.  You  and  Marcia  seem  to  think 
I  know  everything  about  Jean.  Why  should  I?" 

"It  isn't  a  bit  of  use,  you  see,"  said  Marcia,  "and 
we're  convinced  that  you're  a  wife  who  deserves  a 
whole  page  of  history,  so  why  not  go  home  and 
marry  your  Simeon?" 

Hild  glanced  from  Rale  to  his  sister.  Something 
new  and  mystifying  seemed  to  be  facing  her  as 
Marcia  cast  a  word  over  her  shoulder.  The  further 
questions  she  wished  to  ask  were  replaced  in  orderly 
fashion  in  her  mind,  unspoken.  She  waited  a  little, 
and  then  made  ready  to  go.  In  the  street  she 
walked  slowly,  half  expecting  the  sequel  to  her  visit, 
which  actually  occurred.  Arthur  Rale  joined  her 
before  she  had  gone  far  on  her  way,  and  said  at  once: 

"Why  do  you  want  to  see  Jean?" 

She  waited  to  select  words. 

"Why,  you  ought  to  know,"  she  ventured  at  last. 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  see  him  bullied.  Do  you 
think  he  wants  you?" 

"I  promise  to  go  away  if  he  doesn't,"  said  Hild. 

"I  suppose  you  think  he's  abused  you?" 

Hild  looked  up.  "I  think  I  was  a  fool  ever  to  go 
away.  Why,  there  isn't  any  one  like  Jean!"  she 
said. 

"Well,  look  here.  If  you're  really  bound  to  find 
175 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

him  you  can  go  and  look  for  him,  and  I'll  tell  you 
where  to  look.  I  won't  promise  that  he'll  be  there, 
but  he  may.  It  isn't  a  very  polite  place,  either,  but 
if  you  want  him  enough  to  do  him  any  good  you'll 
have  to  put  up  with  worse  things." 

He  gave  her  directions  and  left  her,  and  she  went 
back  to  Cavari's  flat  in  a  mood  that  was  new  to 
her.  She  was  not  sure,  on  considering  the  matter, 
that  it  was  not  she  herself  who  was  new.  She  was 
not  afraid.  She  was  carried  high  and  safe  on  the 
shoulders  of  her  purpose. 

To  find  Jean  as  Rale  directed  she  had  to  go  late 
at  night  to  a  place  in  the  East  Side  called  Percer's. 
It  was  a  sort  of  eating-house  and  music-hall  com- 
bined, and  its  patrons  were  rough  creatures,  with 
here  and  there,  perhaps,  an  adventurous  spirit  from 
a  different  social  plane.  Here,  Arthur  had  told  her, 
Jean  could  always  get  supper  free  and  something 
besides,  and  if  she  went  there  for  several  nights  she 
was  sooner  or  later  sure  to  see  him. 

She  went  back  to  her  room  and  spent  half  an  hour 
putting  her  things  in  order  and  dressing  herself  in 
her  plainest  and  neatest  way.  Then,  afraid  that 
Cavari  would  come  back  and  ask  her  errand,  she 
wrote  a  note  to  her  friend,  and  was  just  placing  it  on 
her  desk  when  Hanbury  came  into  the  room.  An 
impulse  prompted  her  to  hand  him  the  letter  and 
explain  to  him  what  she  intended  to  do.  "And  you 
won't  let  her  think  I  am  silly,  will  you?"  she  pleaded, 
with  earnest  eyes. 

176 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"I'll  come  with  you,"  said  Hanbury. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't,"  cried  Hild.  "What  would 
Nellie  say  to  me.  You  look  so  dreadfully  tired. 
Please  don't." 

"Nonsense.     It  is  my  business,  child.     Come  on." 

She  did  not  dare  protest  further,  but  went  with 
him,  giving  up  the  directing  of  the  affair  to  him. 
They  made  their  way  by  street-car  to  Fourth 
Avenue,  and  then  they  walked  into  such  places  as 
Hild  had  never  before  seen.  There  was  gaudy  mo- 
tion about  them  everywhere,  and  through  it  hungry 
faces  peered  like  reality  defying  rhetoric.  Hild  saw 
the  truth  of  the  hunger,  the  sham  which  made  the 
sense  of  gaiety.  The  women,  with  special  finery, 
tried  to  disguise  detailed  shabbiness,  and  laughed 
with  lips  that  opened  on  filthy  words.  As  she  walked 
farther,  now  holding  Hanbury's  arm,  the  crowd 
was  recruited  by  the  outpouring  of  the  music-hall 
audiences,  and  rough  sleeves  scraped  her  shoulder 
and  smells  and  rude  movement  entered  into  her 
senses  like  drugs.  Hanbury  led  her  on,  sometimes 
glancing  down  to  see  that  she  was  all  right,  and  at 
last  he  said  in  her  ear,  "Here  we  are,"  and  they 
turned  in  together  at  a  gay  doorway,  over  which  the 
name  of  the  place  vaunted  itself  in  letters  of  light. 

The  interior  was  heavy  with  smoke;  it  murmured 
and  trembled  by  turns  with  a  volume  of  sound.  No 
one  seemed  to  be  silent,  no  one  sat  still.  Minute 
by  minute  tables  were  deserted  and  refilled.  They 
had  to  wait  while  Hanbury  found  a  table  for  them. 

177 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

Hild  wondered  what  she  should  have  done  if  she  had 
chanced  to  have  come  alone.  She  did  not  think 
she  would  have  been  afraid. 

"Listen,"  said  Hanbury.  "Whether  or  not  you 
find  Jean,  will  you  promise  to  keep  nothing  from 
me  ?  Will  you  let  me  know  where  you  are  and  how 
you  get  on?" 

"Why,  yes;  you  are  so  kind.  I  will  do  anything 
you  say.  I  think  it's  funny  that  you  should  have 
been  the  only  one  to  give  me  any  help.  I  don't 
understand  it  a  bit.  Really  I  don't.  But  some 
way  you've  understood  all  through,  and  I  think  it 
must  be  because  you  are  so  awfully  good." 

There  was  a  small  stage  at  one  end  of  the  room, 
and  a  girl  was  singing  there  now.  No  one  was 
listening  to  her,  however,  and  Hild  felt  desperately 
sorry  for  her.  There  was  so  much  effort  in  the 
painted  face  and  elaborate  gestures,  and  so  little  re- 
sponse of  the  sort  for  which  she  was  working.  When 
she  finished  her  song  she  made  her  way  about  the 
room  with  her  tambourine,  smiling  energetically  and 
without  much  success.  Her  place  on  the  stage  was 
taken  by  a  couple  who  danced  a  cake-walk  to  the 
accompaniment  of  laughter  and  shouts. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  when  a  stir  spread  across  the 
room.  Heads  turned,  skirts  rustled,  chairs  were 
shifted,  voices  rose.  Between  the  tables  a  man  made 
his  way  toward  the  stage.  Hild  knew  before  she 
saw  him  that  it  was  Jean.  She  had  seen  him  greeted 
before  by  people  who  waited  to  hear  him  play.  A 

178 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

waiter  near  them  murmured  to  Hanbury:  "Lots 
of  them  come  just  to  hear  him.  He  can  play  your 
last  dollar  out  of  your  inside  pocket,  he  can/' 

In  the  hush  that  succeeded  the  clamor  of  welcome 
Hild  saw  her  husband's  figure.  His  coat  hung  in 
accustomed  shabby  folds,  his  hair  was  wild,  his  eager 
face  white.  As  he  sent  a  slow  glance  around  the 
room  she  drew  back,  dreading  to  be  seen.  She 
looked  again,  watching  with  a  thrill  the  familiar  ges- 
tures with  which  he  raised  and  adjusted  his  fiddle. 
Then,  forgetting  her  purpose,  her  companion,  every- 
thing but  the  sudden  releasing  of  her  soul  to  the 
ranging  of  its  heavens,  she  leaned  her  chin  on  her 
hands  and  listened. 

He  knew  his  hearers,  this  Jean,  knew  them  by 
sympathy  of  a  piercing  kind  which  would  have 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  have  failed  them.  He 
gave  them  at  first  airs  from  the  Italian  operas,  as  if 
feeling  for  their  interest.  He  caught  and  gave  out 
again  all  the  sentiment  and  sweetness  in  them,  all 
the  gaiety  and  human  feeling.  When  he  stopped,  a 
hundred  voices  were  raised  in  protest,  and  in  an 
expectant  stillness  he  began  to  improvise.  He  told 
them  stories  which  they  could  understand,  he  gave  to 
them  the  melancholy  and  the  sudden  high  spirits 
of  young  hearts,  he  led  them  through  hopes  and  fears 
to  transient  joy,  and  then  to  loss  and  disillusion. 
He  flung  off  depression  to  embark  upon  gaiety,  wilder 
and  swifter  than  anything  they  could  have  con- 
ceived. He  sent  to  them  a  stern  call  to  duty,  and 

179 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

then  followed  a  lingering  over  daily  work  and 
homely  pleasures,  a  woman's  voice  sounding  through 
the  laughter  of  children;  and  while  these  were  grow- 
ing fainter  and  sweeter,  like  the  merging  of  reality  in 
retrospect,  there  dawned  the  holiness  of  waning  life, 
and  suddenly,  dispersing  peace,  rebellion  at  death, 
which  wears  itself  out  in  weariness  and  calm,  and 
the  sound  of  the  world  surging  on,  sweeping  away 
the  individual  note,  and  ceasing  at  last  on  a  splen- 
did chord  of  triumph,  God's  word  that  all  is  well. 

In  the  midst  of  applause  a  young  man  passed 
Jean's  hat,  and  Hild  saw  that  coppers  and  silver 
pieces  fell  briskly  into  it.  Jean  packed  his  fiddle 
and  prepared  to  leave. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hild.  "I'll  remember  to  let 
you  hear.  Good  night."  She  got  up  and  followed 
Jean  out  of  the  doorway  into  the  lighted  street. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HILD  followed  her  husband  through  the  lighted 
streets  into  a  narrow  dark  alley.  She  did  not 
like  to  speak  to  him  here.  She  wanted  to  come  upon 
him  alone,  in  a  room  where  they  could  talk. 

She  had  not  far  to  go.  She  kept  close  to  his  heels 
and  turned  after  him  into  a  courtyard,  followed  him 
up  a  flight  of  insecure  steps,  hardly  noticing  the 
odors  that  met  her,  through  a  low  doorway,  and  up 
narrow  stairs  to  the  top  of  the  dark  house.  She  was 
in  time  to  hear  him  close  a  door,  and  had  no  difficulty 
in  telling  which  one  it  was  of  the  two  on  either  side 
of  the  passage,  for  from  the  other  side  came  mingled 
sounds  of  a  querulous  voice,  like  a  sick  woman's, 
and  another  voice  monotonously  counting  "forty — 
forty-one — forty-two  (Can't  you  be  quiet!) — forty- 
three — forty-four — forty-five"  on  and  on.  Hild 
waited  until  she  saw  under  Jean's  door  a  narrow 
thread  of  light.  Then  she  knocked  and  entered. 

Jean  was  standing  beside  the  table  on  which  he 
had  just  set  a  lighted  oil-lamp.  The  match  in  his 
hand  still  burned.  Hild  could  see  all  the  poverty 
and  desolation  of  the  room  before  her.  In  one 
corner  an  unmade  bed  supported  huddled  clothing 
of  all  descriptions,  topped  by  one  of  her  own  Persian 

181 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

rugs.  Soiled  linen  lay  at  her  feet.  There  were  two 
chairs  in  the  room — one  her  own  rocking-chair,  one  a 
broken  kitchen  chair.  On  the  table  lay  a  mass  of 
manuscript,  papers,  books,  and  toilet  articles.  The 
room  was  an  attic,  and  sloped  so  low  at  the  eaves 
that  Jean's  leather  trunk  just  fitted  underneath. 
The  air  was  close  and  warm. 

The  match  in  Jean's  hand  burned  to  his  fingers, 
and  Hild,  stepping  forward,  blew  it  out.  She  laid 
her  hands  on  his  arm,  looking  into  his  face.  So  they 
stood,  and  the  silence  lengthened.  A  draught  from 
the  open  window  blew  the  door  shut,  and  a  draught 
from  the  passage  blew  it  open  again.  It  had  no 
latch.  Jean  moved  to  shove  a  broken  lead-pencil 
underneath  to  keep  it  closed.  Then,  with  shaking 
hands,  he  picked  up  his  pipe  from  the  table,  as  if  to 
fill  it,  then  laid  it  down  again. 

"Oh,  Jean,  I'm  glad  I've  found  you,"  said 
Hild. 

"But  I— I  am  not." 

Hild  looked  at  him. 

"No,  I  am  not.  I  have  no  money.  I  did  not 
mean  that  you  should  find  me  here.  I  meant  that 
you  should  wait — yes — until  the  time  came  when 
I  could  have  you  to  come  back.  I  can  feed  myself 
and  pay  for  this" — he  indicated  the  roof — "but  to 
keep  a  lady — no." 

"Just  the  same,  I'm  going  to  stay.  I  can  work, 
too.  Jean,  I'm  sorry  I  ever  went  away." 

"I  would  not  be  sorry.  Sorry?  What  does  it 
182 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

mean.  I  do  not  know.  Another  time  would  you  do 
the  same?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  Another  time  I  think  perhaps 
I'd  understand." 

"So.  You  think  so.  Do  you  expect  me  to  be 
sorry,  too?" 

"I  think  you  were  sorry  then.  Don't  turn  me  out 
again,  Jean.  I  have  come  back  to  stay — to  help  you 
all  I  can.  I  won't  complain.  I'll  share  whatever  is 
good  enough  for  you — this — if  we  can  manage 
nothing  better.  I'm  well  and  strong  again,  and  fit 
to  help." 

"But — there  is  something  more." 

"Then  tell  me  what  it  is." 

He  turned  her  about  so  that  all  the  light  from  the 
lamp  fell  on  her  face  and  held  her  there. 

"Understand,"  he  said.  "Once  I  told  you  to 
marry  me.  What  did  I  mean?  I  meant  be  my 
wife — yes,  wait  on  me,  do  as  I  said,  be  my  servant 
— my  woman — yes?" 

"Yes,  and  I  did  marry  you,  and  I  am — what  you 
say." 

"So.  It  is  not  enough.  You  were  all  that.  It 
was  well  with  me.  Then  all  at  once  it  was  not 
well  with  me.  There  came  a  new  thing  to  me — big — 
oh,  and  beautiful!  Something  to  make  one  to  suffer 
and  to  live.  You  did  it — I  saw  you,  in  a  moment, 
like  a  star  that  is  a  flower  or  a  flower  that  is  a  star — • 
far  away,  oh,  far  away,  but  lovely.  I  have  not 
words.  It  is  not  that  I  make  love  to  you.  That 

183 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

would  be  foolishness,  I  tell  you,  that  is  all.  I  saw 
you  all  at  once  like  this.  Before,  you  were  mine — 
a  thing  of  flesh  and  blood  to  make  life  smooth  to  me, 
to  do  what  I  said,  and  to  be  like  my  hand  or  my  foot 
— obedient  and  useful.  Presto!  this  was  all 
changed.  You  were  of  a  sudden — what  you  are — 
so.  Listen  and  understand.  I  will  not  have  it. 
It  is  to  work  I  am  here,  to  set  music  for  the  world 
to  hear.  If  you  are  near  me  you  make  me  see  and 
hear  you  instead  of  my  visions.  Only  one  thing — 
only  one  thing!  If  you  can  stay — and  love  me! 
Then  I  could  work,  then  I  would — yes,  then  I  would 
work!  But  to  see  you,  to  know  that  if  I  take  you  I 
shall  see  hate  in  your  eyes,  that  is  not  possible.  I 
can  let  you  go,  yes,  but  if  you  stay  you  must  be 
like  this."  He  laid  his  hand  on  his  violin.  "You 
must  make  your  home  in  my  soul.  When  we  play 
together  it  is  so.  So  must  you  live.  Your  eyes 
must  be  mine;  your  mind,  it  must  answer  mine; 
your  heart,  it  must  wait  on  mine.  You  must  have 
no  thought  but  of  me — only  of  me.  So  I  can  keep 
you — only  so — because  I  love  you.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

For  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  Hild  heard 
Jean  speak  from  his  soul  to  her  soul.  He  reached  her 
and  lifted  her  as  he  did  when  he  played.  She  an- 
swered the  searching  of  his  eyes  with  the  yielding  of 
her  own.  What  he  saw  led  him  to  speak  again. 

"Love— it  is  dreadful,"  he  said,  speaking  in 
French.  "  It  is  like  death  and  birth.  It  is  the  world- 

184 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

force  taking  one,  yes,  and  using  one  as  it  will.  You 
give  yourself  to  it,  and  you  are  lost.  You  are  a 
woman,  and  I  tell  you  so.  Every  rapture  has  its 
double  in  suffering.  I  tell  you  that.  I  see  the 
beautiful  beyond  in  you,  and  I  seek  it — and  you  give 
and  give.  Perhaps  I  spoil  your  beauty,  perhaps 
you  lose  health  and  life  while  I  search.  Perhaps  it 
is  not  there  after  all — the  beyond — or  I  lose  sight  of 
it  and  give  up,  and  you  are  to  me  only  a  woman 
whose  life  is  spent.  But  you —  Perhaps  you  have 
children,  and  they  grow  up  and  leave  you,  and  bring 
you  sorrow  year  by  year.  Perhaps. 

"  But  love  is  beautiful.  It  is  that  from  which  we 
come — yes — and  return  to  some  day.  A  woman 
without  love  is  like  seaweed  resting  on  a  sunny 
shore,  at  peace.  But  one  day  the  tide  comes  high 
and  carries  her  away.  Such  is  love.  Will  you 
come  with  me?  I  am  asking  you.  Or  will  you  go 
away  ?" 

"Jean,  I  want  to  stay  with  you.  Let  me." 
"Let  you?"  She  heard  in  his  voice  something 
new  and  ringing  and  exquisite,  and  when  she  looked 
up  it  was  there  in  his  eyes  and  face — it  was  even  in 
the  palms  of  the  hands  that  pressed  her  arms.  A 
new  Jean  stood  before  her.  All  the  boy  in  him, 
fresh  and  undefiled;  all  the  genius  in  him,  pure  and 
transcendent;  all  the  man  in  him  lifted  her  gaze. 
She  hardly  knew  him.  He  let  her  go,  stepping  away, 
and  she  moved  about  the  poor  room,  making  it  de- 
cent while  he  watched.  She  folded  and  piled  to- 

185 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

gather  the  clothes  she  found  scattered.  She  drew 
down  the  tattered  blind.  She  pulled  the  mattress 
and  clothes  from  the  bed  and  made  it  again  smoothly. 
She  .laid  the  rug  beside  it.  She  came  back  to  the 
table  and  cleared  it,  laying  the  papers  and  books  on 
Jean's  trunk.  She  wiped  the  oil  from  the  outside  of 
the  lamp.  She  drew  her  chair  beside  the  table. 
All  the  time  her  heart  was  singing.  She  did  not 
know  why.  She  only  knew  that  a  moment  had  come 
to  which  the  years  of  her  life  had  led,  that  it  was 
hers — a  gift. 

"Would  you  rather  I  went?"  she  asked  him,  softly, 
her  head  drooping  so  that  he  looked  on  waves  of  soft 
hair.  He  put  his  hand  beneath  her  chin  and  raised 
it,  so  that  she  could  not  but  meet  his  eyes. 

"You  are  tired.  Yes — go  and  lie  down  on  my  bed 
and  shut  your  eyes.  I  am  going  to  play  to  you — oh, 
I  shall  play.  I  have  been  lonely;  I  shall  tell  you 
that.  I  have  struggled  with  my  soul;  I  shall  tell 
you  that.  You  are  here  where  I  see  you  and  have 
you;  I  shall  tell  you  that.  All  the  things  I  cannot 
speak  I  will  tell  you.  Shut  your  eyes  and  listen,  and 
sleep." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

struggle  for  a  foothold  on  a  narrow  platform 
1  many  times  too  crowded  may  or  may  not  be 
amusing  in  proportion  to  the  fall  that  threatens. 
It  is,  however,  sure  to  be  interesting.  In  something 
of  this  spirit  Hild  and  Jean  attacked  the  facts  of 
existence.  There  is  a  limit  to  the  anxiety  caused  in 
human  minds  by  external  conditions.  A  clerk  may 
struggle  to  pay  his  life  insurance  as  desperately 
as  a  day-laborer  to  meet  the  demands  of  a  trade- 
union,  though  one  works  for  the  comfort  of  his  dear 
ones  in  a  future  he  will  not  share,  and  the  other  for 
mere  security  from  starvation  on  the  inevitable 
rainy  day.  So  Hild  found  that,  the  day's  food  and 
lodging  secured,  she  could  sleep  as  soundly,  laugh  as 
light-heartedly  as  if  there  were  not  just  such  an- 
other period  of  uncertainty  to  be  lived  through  to- 
morrow. She  even  found  that  the  completeness  of 
their  poverty  had  the  effect  of  hardening  her  to 
sights  and  smells  which,  afterward  remembering, 
turned  her  sick  and  faint.  Clearly,  Jean  did  not 
mind,  and  with  passionate  purpose  she  steeled  her- 
self to  shut  her  eyes  on  much.  She  asked  once  if 
she  might  write  to  her  mother  for  money,  and  Jean 
answered,  roughly: 

13  I87 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

"Then  what  I  give  you  —  it  is  not  enough?  It 
is  this  you  thought  when  you  came  to  me,  'If 
it  is  bad — very  bad — I  can  so  easily  cry  to  mama '  ?" 

She  did  not  speak  again  of  the  plan. 

She  sent  a  note  to  Mme.  Cavari  to  explain  that 
she  had  found  Jean,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  possible 
went  to  see  her  friend.  Mme.  Cavari  was  kind  but 
clearly  puzzled,  and  felt  bound  to  say  a  few  words 
of  warning. 

"One  can  only  understand  by  supposing  that  you 
are  very  much  in  love,"  she  said,  "and  remember, 
my  dear,  that  men  do  not  always  love  longest  the 
women  who  make  sacrifices  for  them." 

Hild  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  inclined  to  answer, 
but  she  did  not  do  so,  and  Cavari  was  left  to  wonder 
what  the  shifting  thought  was  that  Hild  had  not 
cared  to  speak. 

Marcia  Rale,  when  she  saw  Hild,  was  more  em- 
phatic in  her  disapproval. 

"I  hope  you  and  Art  will  come  to  see  us  when 
we've  got  a  little  better  place,"  said  Hild.  "Every 
one  is  so  queer  I  feel  as  if  I'd  done  something  awful 
— run  off  with  somebody  or  something." 

"Well,  I  think  you  have  done  something  awful,  if 
anybody  has.  Other  women  make  hash  of  their 
lives  to  protest  against  the  way  women  are  treated, 
but  you,  and  women  like  you,  make  life  harder  for 
the  women  who  come  after.  I  think  that's  the  mean 
thing.  You're  like  a  striker  that  goes  back  to  work 
on  any  terms,  only  you  haven't  got  the  excuse  of 

188 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

starvation.  I  haven't  any  use  for  you,  and  I  won't 
come  to  see  you.  I  think  you're  a  fool,  if  you're  not 
worse.  As  long  as  Jean  was  half-way  decent  to  you 
you  couldn't  bear  him,  but  he'd  only  got  to  treat 
you  like  the  dirt  under  his  feet  to  make  you  act 
like  it." 

So  Hild's  return  to  Jean  was  made  as  difficult  as 
it  could  be.  In  any  case  it  would  have  been  difficult 
enough.  She  wondered  at  her  own  determination 
when  she  had  time,  but  her  days  were  too  full  for 
much  thought.  It  was  a  time  of  doglike  endurance 
without  much  relief.  Jean  snarled  at  her,  made  her 
wait  on  him,  asking  of  her  anything  he  might  have 
asked  of  the  roughest  servant,  and  through  it  all  she 
was  only  conscious  of  an  eagerness  to  comply,  a 
vivid  readiness  to  minister  to  him,  soul  and  body, 
thus  coming  strangely  upon  happiness. 

They  lived  like  waifs,  one  by  one  dropping  at 
pressure  of  need  the  niceties  of  life.  Sleeping,  eating, 
working,  living  in  their  one  attic  room,  they  were 
exposed  to  the  humiliation  of  a  common  mirror, 
cracked  at  that,  common  hooks  for  their  clothes, 
even  a  common  cake  of  soap.  Having  made  Hild 
see  all  that  she  could  do  without,  Jean  began  the 
teaching  of  all  that  she  could  do.  He  took  her  to 
Percer's  with  him  and  made  her  sing;  he  even  taught 
her  a  few  simple  dance-steps,  which  she  learned 
readily,  and  with  which  she  earned  applause.  She 
looked  so  young,  with  released  hair  and  short  skirts, 
that  her  prettiness  told  with  the  audience.  Jean's 

189 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

music  had  a  mesmeric  effect  upon  her.  It  directed 
her  more  clearly  than  any  words  could.  It  woke 
in  the  girl,  trained  upon  the  traditions  of  Puritanism 
a  vivid  springing  creature,  who,  once  stirred,  took 
possession  of  all  she  found.  So  transmuted,  Hild 
lived  between  sordidness  and  a  freedom,  colored  high, 
scented  finely,  glorious  and  thrilling  to  her  spirit. 
It  had  all  come  about  through  loving  Jean,  as  in 
one  night  she  had  learned  to  love  him.  All  that 
was  temperamental  in  her  had  found  itself  to  give 
to  him  then,  and  all  that  was  lawless  and  primitive 
emerged  by  the  same  way.  She  was  not  sure  that 
she  was  being  what  her  mother  would  call  good, 
and  she  was  very  sure  she  did  not  care.  She  let  go 
with  wide-open  hands,  that  did  not  reach  to  catch 
it  back,  all  thought  of  respectability.  She  longed 
to  be  as  much  the  creature  of  Jean's  thought  as  one 
of  his  compositions.  It  was  because  of  this  sur- 
render that  she  could  dance,  smiling  into  smoke- 
wreathed  faces,  obeying  the  message  of  Jean's  music 
as  if  she  were  the  body  and  it  the  soul.  Afterward 
she  would  follow  him  home  through  the  streets,  go 
with  him  in  at  the  narrow  courtyard  with  its  rank 
sounds  and  odors,  up  the  long  black  stairs  to  their 
sloping  attic  room.  There  she  would  lay  his  supper, 
count  their  earnings,  wait  on  him,  and  if  he  called 
her  come  with  shining  eyes.  When  it  suited  him 
he  could  repay  her  with  a  bounty  that  knew  no  re- 
serve. In  secret  hours  he  came  like  a  king  to  seek 
her  where  she  waited,  fortressed  in  imagination 

190 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

which  had  to  be  taken,  attended  by  susceptibilities 
that  had  to  be  won. 

When,  in  the  ups  and  downs  of  those  weeks,  there 
was  not  enough  money  to  supply  a  full  number  of 
meals  a  day  for  both,  Hild  was  not  allowed  to  suffer. 
She  saw  her  husband  go  ill  fed  because  she  could  not 
help  herself,  and  she  never  heard  him  complain. 

Hild  was  not  surprised  to  see  Hanbury  at  Percer's 
one  night,  and  she  made  a  way  of  speaking  to  him  as 
she  took  the  collection.  He  asked  her  if  Jean  would 
mind  if  he  joined  them  when  they  left. 

"I  don't  know,"  Hild  hesitated.  "You  will  just 
have  to  try  and  see.  Jean  is  funny." 

"What  about  you?"  asked  Hanbury. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right." 

They  had  only  time  for  these  few  words,  but,  to  her 
pleasure,  Jean  was  civil  when  Hanbury  spoke  to  him  a 
little  later  on  the  street,  and  the  talk  between  them 
came  with  that  readiness  which  sometimes  makes 
short  work  of  human  division.  She  did  not  under- 
stand much  of  it,  but  felt  its  scope,  and  listened.  A 
few  minutes  later  she  was  arranging  supper  for  the 
two  men,  and  Hanbury  was  settled  on  the  top  of  her 
trunk.  The  quick  meeting  of  the  two,  like  friends 
rejoined,  threw  a  new  pleasure  into  Hild's  life. 

The  connection,  which  advanced  to  friendship, 
proved  the  beginning  of  better  conditions  for  Hild 
and  Jean.  Through  Hanbury  they  secured  an  en- 
gagement in  vaudeville,  and  were  able  to  put  by  a 
little  money  from  day  to  day.  As  the  hot  weather 

191 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

came  on  and  their  room  became  unendurable  they 
moved  into  more  convenient  quarters  in  a  better 
neighborhood.  Here  Arthur  Rale  and  Hanbury 
were  constant  visitors.  Arthur  had  given  up  every- 
thing to  work  for  the  Socialist  Club,  of  which  he  was 
a  member.  Hild  was  cautioned  to  say  nothing  of 
these  matters,  and  she  grew  to  have  a  feeling  like 
fear  when  she  thought  of  Jean's  connection  with 
them.  There  was  so  much  secrecy,  the  need  for 
which  she  did  not  understand,  and  so  much  gravity  in 
the  treatment  of  issues  which  seemed  to  her  absurd. 
It  might  be  amusing  to  discuss  a  period  of  time  when 
human  nature  should  be  transformed  and  men  more 
considerate  of  one  another  than  of  themselves,  but 
it  did  not  seem  to  be  a  matter  for  which  to  sacrifice 
even  a  moment's  charm.  Therefore,  the  serious 
warning  from  Marcia  and  Arthur  Rale,  and  a  word, 
more  convincing  than  anything  else,  from  Hanbury 
oppressed  Hild  with  a  sense  of  danger.  She  tried  to 
make  Jean  feel  this,  too,  but  he  had  a  stare  which 
could  silence  her  and  which  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
use.  It  was  soon  after  Hild  had  made  unwilling 
vows  of  discretion  that  she  went  to  a  meeting  with 
Jean  and  the  Rales  where  Hanbury  was  to  speak. 
She  was  curious  to  hear  him  and  to  see  a  group  of 
his  followers. 

In  spite  of  her  prejudice,  gathered  from  Rale's 
wildness,  she  was  seized  and  manipulated  by  the 
concentrated  eagerness  of  the  audience  which  filled 
and  crowded  the  bare  room.  She  was  to  be  reached 

192 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

by  earnestness,  and  here  it  was  intense.  She  took 
a  seat  near  Jean,  curiosity  hastily  withdrawn  before 
awe.  She  had  always  felt  Hanbury's  isolation  in  a 
world  of  inferiors,  but,  now  witnessing  his  reception 
here  when,  stepping  onto  the  stage,  he  faced  the 
room,  she  saw  that  her  intuition  was  to  be  proved  just. 

He  began  to  speak  without  attempt  at  effect  or 
even  much  emphasis.  He  pointed  out  the  peculiar 
difficulties  of  the  moment  and  the  dangers  to  society 
if  the  difficulties  were  not  overcome.  He  talked, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  a  paper  he  fingered.  Once  or  twice 
he  paused  to  look  up,  and  when  he  did  this  the  wait- 
ing for  his  next  word  was  like  that  of  a  man  ship- 
wrecked who  signals  to  a  passing  ship  and  waits  to 
see  if  it  will  reply. 

The  heat  of  his  argument  was  fierce,  but  he 
never  lost  control  of  it.  He  used  it,  and  gave  to 
his  hearers  the  complete  result  of  its  working  upon 
his  reason.  Hild  could  see  that  there  was  surprise 
and  emotion  in  the  faces  of  his  hearers.  For  Han- 
bury,  after  telling  them  of  the  need  of  reform,  spent 
the  hour  in  denouncing  the  present  movement 
toward  it.  He  asked  them  to  believe  him  when  he 
said  that  the  tyrants  of  peace  were  better  than  the 
tyrants  of  war.  He  said  that  while  the  men  followed 
their  present  leaders  they  would  lose  double  what- 
ever they  might  gain.  He  had  fought  the  same 
battle  elsewhere  and  had  come  to  America  to  fight 
it  here.  Labor  at  the  mercy  of  capital  was  bad, 
but  labor  at  the  mercy  of  men  subject  to  no  laws 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

of  decency,  kindliness,  or  expedience  was  worse. 
That  was  what  was  happening.  Hanbury  had  spent 
a  fortune  and  the  best  of  a  life  in  combating  this 
perversion  of  the  labor  movement,  and  he  was  per- 
fectly prepared  to  give  anything  else  he  might  come 
to  possess.  Did  his  hearers  believe  him? 

Hild  joined  in  the  subdued  cheering  that  replied. 
The  sound  was  suggestive  of  hidden  force  so  incalcu- 
lable that  she  shivered. 

Continuing,  Hanbury  leaned  on  the  back  of  a  chair 
and  regarded  the  faces  lifted  below  him. 

"These  are  mere  words,  my  friends,"  he  said, 
"but  there  are  actions  behind.  I  am  the  man  to 
lead  this  strike  which  is  nearly  on  us.  Those  who 
are  carried  away  from  my  following  by  wild  promises 
are  those  who  cannot  think  into  the  future.  It  is 
these  who  need  me  most,  and  it  is  these  I  mean  to 
help.  The  men  of  brains  and  malice  who  are  making 
dollars  out  of  desperate  ignorance  can  take  this 
warning  from  me.  I  will  oppose  them  every  step  of 
the  way.  I  will  make  this  strike  impossible  to 
operate.  I  will  work  for  the  owners  before  I  will 
see  my  men  embark  upon  starvation  without  hope 
of  arriving  on  any  shore.  Moderate  demands  now 
will  find  only  a  show  of  resistance.  I  have  talked 
with  men  who  know.  I  am  trusted  to  ask  what  is 
just.  If  the  men  strike  for  all  that  is  demanded 
for  them  by  others  who  are  not  trusted,  there  will 
be  such  opposition  as  they  have  never  before  met, 
and  they  will  be  so  impoverished  as  to  have  to  come 

194 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

to  any  terms.  I  have  prepared  the  way  for  reason- 
able concessions,  and  have  been  doing  so  for  years. 
Do  you  think  I  will  see  this  work  wasted?  There 
is  Washington.  And  I  have  weapons." 

Before  Hanbury  had  finished  Arthur  Rale  had 
risen  noisily  and  left  the  room.  A  suppressed  rush 
of  voices  swelled  as  Hanbury  sat  down.  Hild, 
reverent  of  him,  heard  Jean  say,  "Good,  very 
good!"  and  saw  that  he  continued  smoking  undis- 
turbed. 

Marcia  said,  "They  don't  all  like  it,  but  they'll 
take  anything  on  earth  from  him." 

Mme.  Cavari  was  in  the  room  and  joined  Hild 
later. 

"What  did  it  all  mean?"  Hild  asked  her  in  a 
whisper. 

Cavari  glanced  around. 

"It  means  that  he  had  pitted  himself  against 
desperate  men,"  she  answered.  "What  will  come 
of  it  I  don't  know.  I  don't  dare  think." 

"They  can't  hurt  him?"  Hild  asked. 

"My  dear,  they  can  and  will  unless  a  miracle 
happens." 

"Can't  he  keep  away  from  them?  Oh,  Mme. 
Cavari,  do  make  him!" 

"That's  just  what  no  one  can  do." 

Hanbury  had  asked  Jean  to  tell  the  audience  a 
few  of  his  experiences,  and  Jean  had  risen  to  do  so. 
He  began  in  leisurely  style  to  narrate  such  things  as 
occurred  to  him.  His  ease  and  sense  of  the  pictur- 

195 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

esque  and  the  quaint  hesitations  and  inflections  and 
choice  of  words  gained  the  attention  of  the  roomful 
of  hearers.  He  told  something  of  his  wanderings  as 
a  boy,  of  his  early  days  in  Paris,  of  his  destitution 
in  London.  "Ah,  but  London!"  he  said.  "There  it  is 
that  you  will  see  the  things  that  make  you  to  wonder 
do  we  live  to-day,  when  men  have  begun  to  think 
and  to  speak  what  they  think,  or  do  we  live  in  the 
Dark  Ages.  It  is  in  London  that  one  sees  everywhere 
those  women  whose  sons,  perhaps,  are  grown  men. 
The  faces  of  these  women  are  red  with  much  beer. 
They  wear  bonnets,  so,  and  big  shawls.  They  are 
warm.  They  are  not  uncomfortable,  they  are  not 
starved.  No.  But  their  eyes  are  small  and  red 
like  their  faces;  their  brows  are  narrow;  they  are 
animals  themselves,  and  the  animals  they  have  bred, 
they  are  worse  animals  than  themselves.  They  and 
their  mothers  and  their  mothers'  mothers  have  lived 
like  animals.  If  you  mimic  a  thing  long  enough 
you  become  like  it.  Is  it  not  so?  They  have  had 
enough — oh  yes,  for  are  they  not  alive?  Would  they 
be  alive  if  they  had  been  starved?  I  ask  you! 
Some  of  them  are  even  fat.  Do  not  be  unreasonable 
and  tell  me  that  they  are  starved.  They  have 
enough,  it  is  proved;  but  what  beyond? 

"Look  into  their  homes.  But  the  worst!  A 
woman  to  bear  it — must  die — or,  in  England,  she 
must  get  drunk.  If  you  are  drunk  you  can  bear 
better  to  be  hit,  you  can  bear  better  to  be  dirty  and 
ugly  and  ignored.  So.  This  is  what  it  is  to  have 

196 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

enough!  I  ask  you.  Would  it  not  be  better  to 
give  them  just  a  little  less? 

"One  must  be  very  wise  to  understand  what  to  do 
about  these  things.  I  am  not  wise.  I  do  not  even 
try  to  be.  Mr.  Hanbury,  he  tells  me  one  thing. 
I  have  known  Mr.  Hanbury,  and  other  men,  nearly 
as  wise  as  he,  who  think  like  him.  These  men,  they 
tell  me  that  when  some  have  too  little  and  others 
too  much  it  were  well  to  take  from  the  last  and  give 
to  the  first.  It  seems  simple.  It  even  seems  right. 
The  arguments  against  this  system  (I  read  them 
in  the  paper,  for  these  wise  men  cannot  be  met  in  so 
simple  a  way  as  I  met  Mr.  Hanbury)  they  are  more 
— what  you  say — complicated.  It  is  natural  it  should 
seem  to  me  that  Mr.  Hanbury  is  right.  I  ask  you — 
is  it  not? 

"In  Paris  I  had  a  friend.  He  loved  a  girl — but 
alas !  to  marry  with  the  French — it  is  a  luxury.  She 
loved  him.  It  would  seem  that  to  wait  and  to 
work  were  all  that  was  wanted  to  make  them  happy, 
would  it  not?  She  was  a  good  girl.  She  could  cook 
and  clean  and  mend.  She  could  have  borne  fine 
children  and  kept  them  clean  and  healthy.  But, 
yes!  She  was  a  good  girl.  Her  father — he  worked 
hard,  but  there  were  many  little  ones  in  the  house, 
and  the  girl  had  no  'dot/  She  helped  her  mother 
with  the  little  children,  and  she  waited  and  kept 
herself,  hoping  some  day  to  have  a  house  of  her  own  to 
scrub  and  clean,  a  man  she  loved  to  make  happy,  and 
little  ones  to  cherish,  so.  It  is  a  good  hope  for  a 

197 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

woman — do  you  not  think?     The  French  women — 
they  like  work — they  are  good  at  it. 

"Very  well.  One  day  her  father's  employer  sees 
her,  and  he  thinks  she  is  pretty.  That  is  too  bad, 
is  it  not?  There  follows  several  things.  The  father 
— he  is  helpless — and  for  the  sake  of  her  family, 
and  yet  to  save  herself  for  her  husband,  the  girl 
leaves  home  and  looks  for  work.  Here  and  there 
she  asks  for  work.  Nowhere  does  she  find  it.  I 
have  known  what  that  is  myself.  It  is  not  good  to 
live  through.  But  I  am  not  a  woman.  I  can  only 
starve.  A  woman,  even  if  she  is  starving,  must 
be  suspicious  of  help.  Is  it  not  so?  This  girl — she 
finally  asked  at  a  fashionable  shop  for  something 
to  do.  The  man,  he  looked  at  her.  She  was  pretty 
and  tall  and  good  to  the  eyes.  He  asked  her  one 
question,  only  one.  You  would  think  perhaps  it 
was  'Are  you  a  hard-working  girl?'  or  maybe  'Are 
you  a  good  girl  ?'  or  maybe  '  How  much  wages  do  you 
ask?'  No,  it  was  none  of  these.  He  asked  her  if  she 
had  a  protector.  'Because,'  he  said,  'the  pay  is  not 
enough  to  keep  a  girl'  and  they  did  not  like  to  have 
girls  starving  on  their  hands.  That  was  it.  The 
girl,  she  got  a  protector.  It  was  very  easy.  She 
is  now  a  very  famous  woman.  Oh,  but  yes.  She 
has  motor-cars,  and  she  has  robes  for  which  she  pays 
money  which  would  keep  you  and  me  for  many 
years.  My  friend,  he  is  well  known,  too,  and  it  is 
odd,  is  it  not? — he  gives  me  advice  that  agrees  with 
Mr.  Hanbury's.  He  says  to  me:  'Jean,  the  rich, 

198 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

they  are  too  rich.  They  have  so  much  without  effort 
that  they  think  they  must  have  all.  And  the  poor, 
they  are  too  poor.  They  have  so  little  that  they  are 
not  surprised  when  the  little  they  have  is  taken  away. 
No;  it  is  wrong.  We  shall  soon  set  it  right.'  That 
is  what  he  says.  He  is  now  an  outlaw  in  his  own 
land.  The  woman — what  is  she?  She  takes  and 
takes  for  her  pleasure,  and  she  is  taking  from  good 
women  what  she  has.  She  is  no  use.  She  is  worse 
— she  is  hurtful.  It  is  a  pity.  She  was  a  good  girl. 
She  would  have  had  fine  boys  and  girls,  and  she 
would  have  cared  for  them  well. 

"Mr.  Hanbury,  he  has  asked  me  to  tell  you  these 
things.  I  think  you  are  good  to  listen,  and  I  think 
I  have  said  enough.  If  one  is  to  comment,  it  is  not 
I  who  will — I  am  a  poor  man  and  a  musician.  But 
— who  can  tell? — one  day  I  may  be  a  rich  man.  I 
shall  be  glad.  And  maybe — who  knows? — those 
other  wise  men  who  think  differently,  perhaps  they 
will  make  me  understand  what  seems  now  so  very 
complicated,  why  it  is  that  when  there  is  enough  for 
every  one,  every  one  does  not  have  enough." 

When  Jean  had  finished  Hild  looked  around  to  see 
that  Arthur  had  re-entered  the  room  and  was  ap- 
plauding Jean  furiously.  Marcia's  face  had  an  ugly 
look,  and  to  Hild  there  came,  storming  her  reason, 
the  fear  that  danger  of  an  unnatural  kind  lay  waiting 
its  chance  to  pounce. 

During  the  talk  that  followed  the  speeches  Marcia 
Rale  drew  Hild  aside  and  said: 

199 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"Look  here,  Hild;  Mr.  Hanbury  and  I  have  got  an 
idea,  and  we  want  you  to  help  us.  There  isn't  a  bit 
of  reason  why  you  shouldn't  do  it.  You  know  we 
live  in  a  house  on  Eighteenth  Street,  quite  a  nice  sort 
of  place,  and  there  is  an  empty  room  there  now. 
We  want  you  and  Jean  to  take  it.  You  could  share 
my  sitting-room,  and  it  would  be  ever  so  much  better 
in  every  way.  You  could  get  some  piano  pupils 
in  the  fall  if  you  had  a  decent  place  to  teach  in. 
The  rent  isn't  more  than  you  are  paying  now,  I'm 
pretty  sure.  Try  to  persuade  Jean." 

"Thanks,"  said  Hild,  wondering.     "  I'll  ask  Jean." 

"You  can  manage  it  if  you  try." 

Just  then  Hild  turned  and,  looking  over  her 
shoulder,  met  Hanbury's  eyes  full  upon  her.  She 
felt  sure  that  he  knew  what  they  were  saying,  and 
that  if  he  wished  for  this  arrangement  it  would 
certainly  come  to  pass. 

"I'll  try,"  said  Hild,  not  knowing  that  she  spoke. 

"  Be  sure,"  Marcia  directed. 


CHAPTER    XX 

r~T*HE  scheme  suggested  by  Marcia  on  the  night 
1  of  Jean's  first  address  to  the  Artists'  Social 
Club  worked  out  with  an  ease  which  Hild  regarded 
with  suspicion.  Jean  was  approached  by  Hanbury 
himself,  and  consented  to  remove  himself  and  Hild 
to  a  house  on  the  west  side  without  much  comment  or 
any  hesitation.  When  Hild  saw  the  two  rooms  which 
were  to  be  theirs  under  this  arrangement,  at  a  figure 
surprisingly  agreeing  with  the  one  they  had  to  pay 
before,  she  said  nothing,  but  looked  for  an  explana- 
tion to  Marcia.  Marcia  gave  none,  and  Hild 
thought  that  her  perplexity  was  a  source  of  amuse- 
ment to  the  other.  She  had  come  to  dislike  and  dis- 
trust Marcia;  but  she  equally  trusted  and  believed 
in  Hanbury,  and  she  determined  to  ask  him  to  tell  her 
the  truth.  She  watched  her  chance,  which  was  long 
in  coming,  and  meanwhile  she  had  time  to  discover 
that  the  household  was  made  up  of  Hanbury 's 
friends,  and  that  all  were  alike  occupied  with  some 
sort  of  altruistic  work.  Different  kinds  and  degrees 
of  socialism  were  to  be  found  here,  but  all  were 
agreed  in  looking  to  Hanbury  for  the  final  solution  of 
problems.  Hild  listened  to  much  nonsense,  and  was 
by  no  means  taken  in  by  it.  She  liked  to  hear 

2OI 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Jean  attack  the  conversation,  as  he  sometimes  did 
when  it  soared  too  far  from  the  solid  ground  of 
reason,  attempting  to  map  out  spaces  which  are  to 
be  surveyed  by  no  existing  implements.  Hanbury 
rarely  joined  in  these  discussions,  but  he  often  asked 
Jean  to  speak  at  his  meetings,  and  Jean  was  with 
him  much  of  the  time.  Arthur  Rale  came  to  see 
them  at  irregular  intervals,  and  talked  wildly  while 
Jean  thought  his  own  thoughts.  If  Marcia  or 
Hanbury  came  into  the  room  Arthur  would  not 
stay.  Marcia  felt  this,  Hild  knew,  and  visited  her 
bitterness  on  Hild  and  Jean. 

The  great  strike  had  been  for  the  moment  averted, 
and  Hild  understood  that  Hanbury  was  at  the  bottom 
of  its  failure.  He  grew  ill  and  haggard  under  the 
strain  of  work  which  he  imposed  upon  himself,  and 
Hild  thought  that  he  was  something  worse  than  dis- 
couraged— she  thought  he  was  beaten.  She  felt 
near  him,  and  tenderly  of  him,  without  anything,  to 
account  for  the  feeling.  Her  poise  at  Hanbury's 
side  had  always  been  mysterious,  and  she  was  used 
to  being  conscious  of  that  which  she  could  not 
explain. 

She  asked  him,  on  an  occasion  when  she  found 
him  alone  in  their  sitting-room,  if  they  had  him  to 
thank  for  their  improved  housing,  "because  I  should 
not  mind  thanking  you,"  she  added. 

"I  should  mind,"  he  put  her  off,  not  unkindly. 

"If  I  promise  not  to  thank  you,  will  you  tell  me?" 
she  asked. 

202 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Now  he  looked  at  her. 

"I  want  you  to  remember  that  you  have  me  to 
thank  for  nothing,  and  that  I  am  in  your  debt,"  he 
told  her. 

She  believed  him,  and  only  much  later  thought  to 
wonder  what  he  had  meant. 

The  summer  advanced,  and  Hild  was  carried  for- 
ward on  a  warm  tide  of  life  which  kept  her  away 
from  the  quiet  pools  and  green  shores.  She  was  con- 
scious of  exhilarating  motion,  smooth  and  rapid, 
with  occasional  intervals  of  danger  and  difficulty. 

There  came,  however,  a  moment  of  arrival  when 
she  had  to  find  her  feet  in  spite  of  whirling  currents. 

She  had  known  for  some  time  that  Jean  was 
adjusted  to  some  new  hope,  and  that  Hanbury 
shared  the  secret.  One  evening  when  Marcia  and 
Hild  sat  together  in  Hild's  room  Hanbury  told  them 
what  it  was,  and  Jean  listened,  his  pipe  in  play  and 
his  eyes  on  the  far  wall. 

Hanbury  had  some  time  previously  been  given  an 
original  libretto  for  an  opera.  He  had  been  for 
weeks  waiting  for  a  famous  playwright  and  writer 
of  blank  verse  to  put  some  polishing  touches  to  the 
book,  and  now  he  had  submitted  it  to  Jean  as  a 
subject  for  him.  Everett  had  already  promised  to 
see  the  thing  through,  and  Cavari  would  sing  the 
woman's  part.  Jean  was  to  go  forward  with  the 
work  as  quickly  as  he  could.  He  was  pleased  with 
his  theme. 

"Pleased — "     Jean  turned  with  heat  upon  Han- 

14  203 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

bury.  "Do  not  talk  to  me  of  being  pleased.  Am  I 
a  stone?  Am  I  a  political  gentleman?  I  ask  you. 
No,  I  am  not.  Do  you  say  a  man  is  pleased  when  he 
leaves  the  prison  and  breathes  the  air?  Then  do  not 
talk  to  me  of  being  pleased." 

Questions  and  answers  sped  in  each  other's  wake, 
and  at  last  the  women  settled  themselves  while 
Hanbury  fingered  the  manuscript,  explaining  the 
drift  of  its  theme  before  reading  it. 

Parting  the  sultry  atmosphere  of  the  August  night, 
a  breeze  from  the  river,  cool  and  fresh,  came  in  at 
the  window,  moving  the  curtains  as  it  passed. 
Rapping  and  humming  sounds,  so  familiar  to  the 
four  that  they  came  and  went  unnoticed,  ascended 
from  the  streets.  As  Hanbury  began  to  read,  his 
hearers  were  able  to  imagine  themselves  flown  over 
miles  of  country  to  a  western  factory -town  at  a 
period  when  unions  were  immature  and  capital  not 
so  immensely  centralized.  They  followed  the  drama, 
absorbed  in  it  from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  scarcely 
understanding  how  skilfully  the  difficult  material 
had  been  manipulated,  so  convincing  was  the  effect. 

The  movement  of  the  story  centered  about  four 
people  and  a  child.  There  was  Mason,  the  owner  of 
the  factory;  "Garry,"  the  foreman,  who  by  virtue 
of  his  able  mind  and  advanced  opinions  controls 
the  men  and  is  feared  by  Mason  therefor.  Between 
these  two  there  is  an  enmity  established  in  their  bcy- 
hood.  Garry  is  married  to  Hannah,  the  heroine  of 
the  story,  and  they  have  one  child,  Molly.  Besides 

204 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

these,  Hannah's  brother  is  also  a  workman  in  the 
factory.  He  is  a  silent  youth,  considered  of  no  ac- 
count, prone  to  sit  in  corners,  and  once  in  a  while  to 
say  an  odd  and  disturbing  thing.  Every  one  loves 
him,  however,  and  he  is  called  by  all  "The  Brother." 

The  drama  begins  with  a  scene  in  Hannah's  house. 
The  sun  is  setting  and  the  room  is  rosy  with  its  light. 
The  child  is  playing  on  the  floor. 

Hannah  enters  and,  singing  at  her  work,  suddenly 
stops  and  listens,  hearing  loud  voices  outside.  She 
runs  to  the  window,  and  tells  the  child  what  she  sees. 
Garry  is  approaching  with  a  group  of  excited  men. 
He  parts  with  them  and  comes  in  at  the  door, 
moodily  kissing  Hannah  and  the  child.  Hannah 
questions  him,  and  at  last  he  tells  her  that  Mason 
has  dared  to  dock  the  wages  of  some  of  the  men  and 
that  they  do  not  intend  to  submit  to  it.  They  will 
certainly  strike  for  better  terms  than  they  are  at 
present  getting,  and  the  owner  must  give  in  or  they 
will  starve.  As  he  talks,  growing  more  and  more 
excited,  Brother  comes  in  and  stands  quietly  at  the 
door,  his  long  hair  hanging  over  his  face,  and  his 
eyes  on  Garry,  who  seems  to  feel  something  restrain- 
ing, for  he  stops  and  turns,  only  to  see  Molly  and 
Brother  playing  together. 

Hannah  pleads  with  Garry,  telling  him  all  the 
sorrow,  all  the  danger  he  intends  to  court.  The 
lines  of  her  part  here  ascended  by  gentle  ways  to 
greatness.  It  was  a  bit  of  writing  fine  enough  in 
itself  to  justify  the  whole  play,  and  there  was  more 

205 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

like  it  to  come.  At  the  end  of  the  scene  Brother,  in 
his  way,  comes  to  Hannah  and  whispers  words  in  her 
ear,  and  as  she  looks  up  at  him  in  wonder  the  curtain 
descends. 

In  the  second  act  the  strike  is  in  progress.  The 
scene  is  a  series  of  typical  cottages  in  the  precincts 
of  a  factory.  Hannah  is  oppressed  by  the  feeling 
that  Garry  is  responsible  for  the  continuing  of  the 
strike  after  Mason  has  conceded  much.  His  bitter- 
ness is  increased  by  suffering,  and  he  will  yield  noth- 
ing. Hannah,  in  pity  for  those  poorer  than  herself, 
and  hoping  that  Garry  may  give  in  when  he  sees  his 
own  dear  ones  hungry,  gives  away  her  last  provisions, 
and  tells  him  what  she  has  done.  While  they  talk 
a  group  of  men  who  wish  to  return  to  work  come 
to  attack  their  house.  They  are  beginning  to 
throw  stones  and  to  threaten  Garry  and  Hannah 
when  Brother  appears  at  the  door.  The  darkness  is 
descending,  and  in  the  half-light  he  seems  unlike 
himself,  standing  straight  and  tall,  his  eyes  brilliant. 
He  startles  and  awes  the  men,  and  he  tells  them  to 
be  patient  for  two  days. 

The  third  act  sees  Brother's  strange  control  over 
the  people  whom  he  chooses  to  influence.  He  goes 
to  Mason  and  persuades  him  to  go  to  see  Hannah. 
Mason  does  so,  thinking  that  she  may  be  persuaded 
to  use  her  influence  with  her  husband  toward  ending 
the  strike.  While  he  is  in  the  cottage  Garry  enters, 
and  there  are  sharp  words  between  the  men.  At 
last,  however,  they  are  led  to  sit  down  and  discuss 

206 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

matters,  Brother  standing,  unnoticed,  between  them, 
and  as  they  talk  their  personal  antagonism  seems  to 
wane.  Brother  watches  them,  his  face  growing 
beautifully  bright.  Once  Mason  turns  to  look  over 
his  shoulder,  saying  that  he  feels  there  is  some 
one  in  the  room.  Garry  answers,  "No  one  but 
Brother." 

In  the  last  act  affairs  are  adjusted  at  the  factory 
and  comfort  restored  to  the  working-people.  But 
Brother  tells  them  that  he  is  going  away.  Hannah 
tries  to  keep  him,  and  Garry  and  Mason  do  their 
best  to  influence  him  to  stay.  He  will  not  say  where 
he  goes  or  why.  He  silently  makes  ready  to  go.  It 
is  winter,  and  the  snow  is  falling  fast.  Little  Molly 
cries  and  clings  to  him.  He  kisses  her,  and  she  is 
quieted.  They  all  watch  him  go  out  of  the  door, 
pausing  a  moment  to  turn  and  smile  and  then  van- 
ish in  the  night.  They  look  at  each  other  without 
speaking.  At  last  Molly  says: 

"You  know  they  need  a  brother  there." 
Hild  understood,  looking  at  Jean,  what  he  saw 
in  the  lines.  He  began  eagerly  to  explain.  He 
pointed  out  that  much  of  the  acting  would  be  inde- 
pendent of  lines,  and  would  only  have  a  musical 
accompaniment.  It  would  make  up  a  form  of 
opera  in  which  he  had  always  believed.  Jean 
waved  his  hands,  he  flourished  his  pipe,  he  set  on  end 
a  lock  of  hair,  and  then  he  said:  "Why  do  you  not 
say  something?  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  see 
what  I  shall  do  with  it?  Have  you  no  souls?  No,  I 

207 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

see  it.  You  have  not.  It  is  clear.  I  have  a  soul, 
and  I  can  hear  the  music  I  shall  make.  But  you, 
you  have  to  wait  until  it  is  there  before  you.  That 
is  a  curious  thing.  Because  to  me  it  is  so  much  more 
beautiful  before  it  has  form."  He  glanced  pitifully 
at  Hanbury  for  understanding.  "It  will  never  be  so 
beautiful  again,"  he  despaired,  as  depressed  as  five 
minutes  ago  he  had  been  elated.  "Never!  And 
the  pain  of  trying  to  make  it  as  I  can  hear  it."  He 
put  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  others  talked  of  the  plans  for  the  production 
of  the  opera.  Hanbury  intended  to  make  it  possible 
for  Jean  to  work  steadily  upon  it,  he  said,  and  they 
hoped  to  arrange  for  its  appearance  in  the  following 
spring.  They  apportioned  the  parts  in  fancy,  and 
talked  far  into  the  night,  even  Marcia  caught  and 
held  by  interest.  There  was  a  young  girl's  part, 
which  Hanbury  wanted  Hild  to  take. 

When  she  went  to  her  room  that  night  she  found 
Jean  sitting  near  the  window.  She  glanced  at  him 
half  a  dozen  times  before  she  spoke,  sheltered  by 
her  hair,  which  she  had  let  fall  and  began  to  pleat 
for  the  night. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Jean?"  she  asked, 
hypnotized  by  the  fear  of  being  foolish  into  being 
foolhardy.  Jean,  however,  did  not  hear  her  question. 
One  long  braid  hung  over  her  shoulder  before  she 
said  again,  "It  is  lovely,  isn't  it?" 

Then  Jean  looked  her  way,  and  gradually  she 
seemed  to  emerge  for  him  out  of  a  mist  of  unrealities. 

208 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

She  watched  his  eyes  warm,  deepen,  and  then  retire 
behind  a  slide  of  indignant  protest. 

"It  is  abominable,  and  I  will  not  have  it!"  he 
told  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  Hild 
answered,  ready  for  anything. 

"I  tell  you  I  know  that  you  are  pretty.  Is  it  not 
enough  ?  Am  I  never  to  forget  ?  I  have  other  things 
to  occupy  me,  and  I  will  not  be  interrupted.  You 
interrupt  me  when  you  look  at  me  so.  You  un- 
derstand?" 

"Oh,  Jean,  do  talk  to  me  for  a  minute.  Do  you 
think  the  opera  will  be  a  success  ?" 

"I  think  it  is  my  escape  from  the  shades.  I 
think  it  is  the  door  to  the  future.  I  think  it  is 
great,  yes;  and  it  is  mine,  even  as  you  are,  my  little 
one.  No,  you  have  interrupted  me,  and  I  can  no 
longer  think.  I  will  go  to  bed.  To-morrow  I  will 
work.  For  one  night  it  shall  be  perfect  in  my  soul. 
I  will  hold  it  there  and  be  happy  for  one  night." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

EVERYTHING  conspired  in  favor  of  the  new 
opera.  Everett  took  it  up  with  enthusiasm, 
and  more  than  once  joined  their  party  during  the 
small  hours  of  the  night  to  discuss  its  progress. 
Jean  was  composing  with  ease  and  rapidity,  and  the 
thing  ran  on  greased  wheels. 

Their  life  these  days  forced  the  hours  in  riotous 
confusion  away.  It  was  morning,  and  Hild  was 
dressing  with  deft  haste,  while  Jean  lay  heavily 
sleeping  under  the  cheap  cotton  sheet.  It  was  noon, 
and  she  was  listening  for  his  step,  so  that  his  coffee 
should  be  ready,  but  not  overboiled.  It  was  after- 
noon, and  she  was  listening,  sewing,  while  he  worked. 
It  was  night,  and  they  were  dining  somewhere  alone, 
or  with  Marcia  and  Hanbury.  She  was  playing  for 
Jean,  and  below  them  was  a  moving  human  mass 
seen  through  the  haze  of  smoke.  She  was  singing 
just  like  a  milkmaid,  a  school-girl,  a  workhouse 
dame,  a  factory  hand.  It  was  Sunday  night,  and 
she  was  listening  to  Hanbury  or  Jean  speaking  to 
the  Artists'  Club. 

Sometimes  Jean  took  her  for  long  rambles 
through  the  ugly  parts  of  the  town,  and  they  saw 
lurid  sights  and  heard  soul-searing  sounds.  Some- 

210 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

times  he  and  she  made  their  way  over  Fort  Lee 
ferry,  and  were  soon  in  the  green  woods.  At  these 
times  he  would  make  holiday  for  them  both.  He 
could  tell  her  of  things  he  had  seen — of  cathedrals, 
like  the  everlasting  souls  of  domed  forests  holding 
one  with  the  spell  of  all  history;  of  human  hopes 
and  fears  and  faiths  without  number;  of  cities,  the 
glory  of  which  such  buildings  were,  where  the  spirit 
of  modern  devastation  had  encroached.  "The 
smell  of  new  paint  and  the  sound  of  the  automobile — 
they  are  there — most  to  be  noticed  where  romance 
still  breathes."  And  Hild  listened  and  burned  to 
hear  more,  and  wondered  how  she  had  cared  to  live 
her  days  out  once.  When  they  returned  to  their 
rooms  there  was  always  a  sequel  of  some  sort  to  the 
day — a  controversy  with  some  one,  in  which  Jean's 
heat  and  free  use  of  violent  phrases  often  conquered 
better  weapons;  a  sudden  sally  on  their  privacy  by 
half  a  dozen  people  bent  on  frivolity. 

There  were  tears  for  Hild  in  these  days  as  well 
as  laughter.  Jean  often  abused  her  with  the  com- 
plete unreasonableness  of  an  irritated  parrot.  He 
ignored  her  for  days  at  a  time.  She  had  no  rights 
and  no  privileges.  She  had  to  be  at  home  when  he 
came,  and  she  had  to  go  with  him  when  he  pleased, 
without  asking  why  or  where  they  were  going.  She 
had  to  keep  silence  in  companionship.  Even  a 
rustled  paper  or  the  sound  of  a  pen  might  be  an 
offense  unpardonable.  She  was,  in  short,  the 
oppressed  woman  of  whom  one  hears  much  and  sees 

211 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

little  in  these  emancipated  times.  And  with  it  all 
the  color  and  movement  of  her  life — the  contrast 
between  immense  hopes  and  grim  fears — kept  her 
infinitely  alive.  An  hour  in  which  Jean  had  made 
himself  unbearable  might  be  followed  by  many  in 
which  they  sought  and  found  high  romance.  Dreams 
of  a  day  when  a  bejeweled  and  bestarred  world 
should  clamor  at  their  feet,  when  ladies,  with  nothing 
better  to  do,  would  steal  Jean's  handkerchiefs  as 
souvenirs,  when  managers  would  vie  with  one  an- 
other in  paying  enormous  sums  for  half  an  hour 
of  Jean's  time,  were  varied  by  serious  debates  as 
to  whether  a  certain  piece  of  silver  should  go  for 
chops  or  car-fare.  Immediate  dangers  threatened 
a  rich  present,  and  Hild  thrilled  and  warmed  to  the 
treatment. 

She  had  her  small  taste  of  public  success,  too,  to 
inspire  her,  and  it  acted  on  her  with  magical  effect. 
She  was  too  wholly  absorbed  in  Jean's  will  to  be 
self-conscious,  but  she  seemed  liberated  to  new  con- 
tacts. JHer  voice  had  improved,  and  through 
Hanbury  a  vocal  instructor  had  become  interested 
enough  to  take  her  in  hand,  and  at  odd  moments 
she  worked  hard  to  conquer  bad  habits  in  her  sing- 
ing. She  could  dance  to  Jean's  music  with  original- 
ity and  charm,  and  she  could  act  with  him.  He 
had  only  to  tell  her  what  to  do,  and  she  would  do  it, 
but  no  one  else  could  teach  her.  Hanbury  said  to 
Jean: 

"It's  interesting  and  curious.  It  is  as  if  you  had 
212 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

two  bodies — hers  and  yours.  What  you  conceive  she 
can  accomplish." 

"And  that — is  it  strange  to  you?"  asked  Jean. 
"Does  not  a  woman  use  that  which  she  has  for  a 
man  ?  Perhaps  she  has  beauty — so !  She  gives  it  to 
a  man  to  please  him.  Some  women  have  much 
to  give — others  little.  It  is  lucky  wlien  the  man 
who  asks  much  finds  it.  It  is  not  always  so." 

"And  if  you  had  not  asked  of  Hild  all  these 
splendid  things — what  then  ?" 

"That  is  a  strange  thing — yes,  but  strange!"  said 
Jean,  musing.  "Women — they  are  not  to  be  under- 
stood—  no,  not  even  if  one  studied  them  for  life. 
And  consider  one's  brains  at  the  end!  Do  not  try 
it,  my  friend.  When  I  married  Hild  I  asked  of  her 
so  very  little.  Only  to  cook,  to  mend,  to  do  what 
any  woman  could  do  as  well.  It  was  not  unreason- 
able— no?  But  she — she  would  not.  She  failed.  It 
surprised  me — I  conceal  nothing — it  made  me  as- 
tonished. And  then — oh,  but  strange!  I  became 
mad.  I  became  foolish.  Many  things  happened. 
Of  a  sudden  I  ceased  to  be  reasonable.  I  demanded 
of  her — oh,  everything — the  impossible,  all  that  is 
rare,  more  than  any  man  who  has  sense  would 
think  for  one  minute  of  asking.  And  what  happens, 
my  friend?  I  get  it  all  and  more!  Women — I  do 
not  understand  them.  I  do  not  try." 

Summer  had  burned  itself  out,  and  a  short, 
exquisite  autumn  had  rejoiced  human  hearts,  and 
the  writing  of  Jean's  opera  was  far  advanced. 

213 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Winter  laid  an  icy  hand  on  the  town  and,  as  the  days 
went  on,  began  a  cruel  thrusting  with  its  frozen 
wind-swords,  nearly  defeating  the  young  and  full- 
blooded,  sending  the  old  and  ill  who  were  exposed 
to  its  merciless  play  back  to  sick-beds  and  sorrow. 
The  season  made  little  difference  to  Hild  and  her 
circle.  They  scarcely  noticed  the  forbidding  weather 
except  when  they  had  to  face  it  to  keep  an  agreement 
which  meant  food  and  roofing.  They  saw  their  way 
toward  the  completion  of  the  opera.  That  was  the 
tremendous  thought  that  kept  them  all  alike  in  a 
charmed  atmosphere.  Everett  was  prepared  to  push 
the  thing.  Cavari  would  sing  in  no  opera  till  this  one 
was  ready.  Jean  worked  with  the  most  prodigal 
expenditure  of  nervous  force.  He  scarcely  rested, 
and  as  the  days  went  on  he  forgot  Hild.  Their 
hours  of  recreation  ceased.  She  was  no  more  to  him 
for  the  moment  than  was  Marcia,  not  so  much  as  his 
fiddle  and  the  paper  on  which  he  wrote  his  scores. 
She  scarcely  resented  it.  An  obsession  seemed  to  be 
on  them  all.  Hild  sometimes  felt  that  she,  Jean, 
Marcia,  Hanbury  moved  in  a  dim  haze  of  unreal 
shapes  which  would  one  day  dissolve  and  leave 
them  in  a  world  they  did  not  know. 

Arthur  Rale  alone  of  all  Jean's  friends  seemed  to 
be  acceptable  to  him  these  days.  Rale  would  come 
and  talk  in  a  voice  of  peculiar  pitch,  and  Jean  would 
listen,  smoking  and  shaking  his  head,  and  then  would 
play  while  the  lines  would  soften  in  Rale's  face, 
showing  him  a  boy.  Hild  did  not  quite  understand 

214 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

the  friendship,  but  she  saw  that  Marcia  did  not  like 
it,  and  she  tried  to  put  a  stop  to  such  frequent  visits. 
Rale  avoided  Hanbury,  but  Hanbury  seemed  not  to 
notice  this.  He  was  often  away  at  this  time.  Mme, 
Cavari  told  Hild  once  that  he  was  holding  the  fate 
of  thousands  in  his  two  hands.  If  the  pressure  of 
his  control  were  removed  there  would  be  such  a 
disastrous  social  war  as  had  never  been  known. 
No  good  could  come  of  it,  she  explained,  for  the 
extremists  demanded  what  it  was  impossible  to 
give.  They,  at  the  moment,  were  powerful  with  the 
trade-unions,  but  while  Hanbury  was  in  the  country 
they  would  not  dare  order  a  strike  in  opposition  to 
him,  so  strong  was  his  hold  upon  the  minds  of  the 
men. 

"It  was  to  the  interest  of  a  dozen  desperate  men 
to  remove  him,"  Cavari  added,  looking  at  Hild. 

Marcia  was  often  away  with  Hanbury,  and  was 
much  occupied  when  he  was  in  New  York  with  let- 
ters, telegrams,  and  work  of  all  kinds.  Hild  was 
able  to  notice,  however,  that  she  was  increasingly 
rude  to  Jean  and  her.  Once  she  asked  Hild  if  she 
intended  to  let  things  go  on.  Hild  did  not  know 
what  she  meant  and  said  so. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you,  innocent,"  said  Marcia. 

"I  don't  think  I  care  about  being  told."  Hild 
made  to  walk  away. 

"Your  Jean  and  Art  had  better  look  out,  that's 
all,  or  something  will  stop  their  pranks.  You  can 
tell  them  from  me  that  I  know  the  place  on  Sixteenth. 

215 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

Street  is  watched.  Of  course  it  '11  be  Art  who  gets 
caught,  but  it's  Jean  who's  to  blame.  If  he  gets 
Art  into  trouble  he  won't  get  off,  I'll  promise  him 
that.  I  know  too  much." 

Hild  had  paused  to  hear  these  astonishing  remarks 
to  their  finish;  but  she  did  not  answer,  knowing  that 
she  had  no  material  with  which  to  convince  Marcia 
that  she  was  wrong.  It  was  partly  because  of  this 
conversation  that  she  formed  a  habit  of  going  with 
Jean  and  Arthur  as  often  as  possible  when  they  went 
out. 

The  orchestration  of  Jean's  work  was  completed 
in  January,  and  the  thing,  in  the  hands  of  a  publisher, 
was  to  be  produced  after  Easter.  Every  effort  was 
made  to  rush  it  forward.  It  was  timely,  Everett 
pointed  out  with  enthusiasm.  A  theater  was  found 
of  suitable  proportions  and  the  advertising  put  under 
way.  A  train  of  consequent  business  kept  Hanbury 
and  Jean  occupied.  Hild,  who  had  hoped  for  a 
change  in  Jean  at  the  completion  of  the  work,  saw 
that  to  be  normal  again  he  must  see  his  work  suc- 
cessful. He  had  flung  his  soul  into  the  composition, 
and  it  could  only  return  to  him  on  a  wave  of  recogni- 
tion and  fame. 

Her  part  in  Brother  interested  her,  and  Cavari 
was  pleased  with  the  development  of  her  voice. 
"It  will  never  be  great,  but  it  will  be  enough,  per- 
haps, to  help  you  to  a  place  of  your  own,  because  you 
can  act  as  well  as  sing."  She  chose  Hild  as  her 
under-study;  and  Hild,  who  could  imitate,  learned  a 

216 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

great  deal  from  singing  Cavari's  part  in  Cavari's 
way.  The  rehearsals  were  things  of  despair.  Everett 
expected  perfection,  and  scolded  till  he  got  it.  The 
crowd  of  men  was  difficult  to  handle  artistically.  A 
French  painter  was  engaged  to  study  the  scenic 
effects  and  grouping,  the  costumes  and  tableaux.  He 
and  Jean  chattered  like  excited  sparrows. 

"Take  away  all  the  ugliness  of  it  and  ye'll  spile  the 
sinse!"  insisted  Everett,  too  excited  to  remember  that 
he  had  of  late  made  a  study  of  vowel  sounds. 

M.  Devereux  looked  helplessly  to  Jean,  who  said: 

"It  is  like  this — you  will  see  if  you  will  listen! 
The  streets  of  London,  they  are  ugly  —  oh,  but 
yes!  But  a  mauve  haze  envelops  them  and — presto! 
a  painter  despairs  to  do  them  justice.  Art,  she  is 
the  haze  over  things  of  every  day.  So." 

Everett  charged  upon  a  whispering  group  of  chorus- 
girls,  and  the  chattering  continued: 

"That  girl  has  spirit — temperament,"  said  Deve- 
reux in  French,  pointing  to  Hild.  "The  eyes!  The 
suppleness!  I  must  talk  to  her." 

Jean  glanced  at  Hild,  and  then  he  lowered  his  eyes. 

"When  the  clapping  of  hands — it  deafens  me — 
when  I  am  hailed  as  the  genius  of  the  age — then  I 
will  look  at  her,  yes — "  he  said,  much  to  Devereux's 
bewilderment.  "Now — you  must  not  ask  me.  It 
is  not  best.  You  may  talk  to  her  if  you  wish.  She 
is  my  wife." 

One  night  when  every  one  concerned  in  Brother 
was  in  a  nervous  condition,  bordering  on  hysterics 

217 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

with  the  women  and  belligerency  with  the  men, 
Hild  went  with  Rale  and  Jean  to  an  outdoor  meet- 
ing in  one  of  the  very  poor  streets  off  the  Bowery. 
The  night  was  mild  for  March,  and  a  crowd  collected 
rapidly,  so  that  when  the  speaker  rose  the  shoulders 
of  the  men  pressed  sharply  together,  and  a  shove 
set  twenty  people  shoving  likewise.  Hild  and  Jean 
kept  together  with  difficulty,  but  when  the  speaking 
began  the  crowd  quieted  down  to  listen.  Hild  saw 
at  once  that  the  spirit  of  the  men  was  ugly.  Once 
or  twice  as  some  sore  theme  was  touched  a  low 
growl  arose  from  hundreds  of  burly  throats.  There 
were  all  sorts  and  kinds  of  workers  there — Italians, 
whose  happy  faces  Hild  had  noticed  often,  their  red 
lips  curled  back  from  shining  teeth,  their  small  dark 
heads,  glancing  eyes,  loosely  set  shoulders,  and 
expressive  hands,  all  moving  merrily  to  the  sense  of 
words.  Now  they  were  sullen,  lips  puffed  out,  jaws 
heavy.  There  were  big  Swedes,  and  Germans  red 
and  stolid.  There  were  men  of  no  nationality,  low- 
browed and  furtive.  Hild  felt  sorry  that  she  had 
come.  She  listened  to  the  speech  with  growing 
surprise.  It  was  unlike  any  she  had  heard,  de- 
liberately calculated  to  rouse  all  that  was  rebellious 
in  these  men.  It  spoke  to  their  ignorance  and  their 
greed.  It  rendered  them  devilish  in  their  eagerness 
for  destruction.  Nothing  untrue  was  said,  but  the 
truths  chosen  and  said  were  those  best  unspoken, 
and  those  were  left  out  that  would  have  balanced  the 
effect.  The  orator  did  not  trouble  himself  to  be 

218 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

reasonable  —  these  men  did  not  want  reason,  they 
wanted  food  for  their  passions,  and  he  gave  it  to 
them  steaming  from  the  fire.  Sometimes  he  re- 
peated a  set  of  arguments  in  Italian.  He  knew  his 
hearers.  When  he  stopped,  the  light  of  fanatical 
energy  on  his  face,  Hild  could  feel  the  shudder  of 
anger  that  shook  the  mass  of  men.  The  speech  had 
not  been  long,  and  the  men  dispersed  rapidly. 
Fifteen  minutes  afterward  a  solitary  policeman 
strolled  down  the  street  and  saw  nothing. 

Hild  turned  to  Jean  and  Rale  and  found  them 
talking  earnestly. 

"It  is  not  my  business.  It  is  best  that  it  should 
not  be,"  Jean  was  saying.  "If  I  think  of  it —  there 
is  no  way  to  tell  what  I  shall  think.  No — I  will  go 
home.  What  I  have  seen  to-night — it  is  like  telling 
a  child  its  stepmother  abuses  it.  What  is  the  good? 
Can  the  child  do  anything?  After  all,  is  any  one 
else  going  to  do  any  better  for  the  child  ?  It  is  time 
enough  then  to  talk  to  him.  No — I  will  not  go  to 
your  meeting.  No — I  shall  go  home." 

Hild  saw  a  man  touch  Rale  on  the  arm.  They 
went  away  together,  and  she  and  Jean  went  home. 
For  the  first  time  in  weeks  he  talked  to  her. 

"I  am  not  what  you  call  a  practical  philosopher. 
No;  human  nature,  she  is  strange.  I  can  never  see 
that  you  can  reckon  with  her.  Now  she  is  like  a  tame 
kitten — one  can  play  with  her  and  watch  her  and 
stroke  her  in  comfort.  That  is  pleasant,  is  it  not? 
But  then,  presto!  she  is  a  tigress  and  she  jumps 
15  219 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

for  one's  throat — so — and  one  is  quickly  strangled. 
That  is  sad.  And  that  is  not  all.  A  man,  he  spends 
his  life  in  proving  that  she  is  a  machine — oh,  mar- 
velous if  you  like — but  always  working  according 
to  law,  and  suddenly  the  machine  stops,  turns  on 
him  and  devours  him,  or  maybe  flings  about  him  a 
woman's  arms.  His  theories — they  stop  like  a 
watch  that  will  not  work.  They  are  no  good.  And 
another — he  begins  at  what  he  knows,  and  then  he 
spends  his  life  finding  out  why  he  knows  it,  and  he 
gets  confused  and  thinks  the  last  is  more  important 
than  the  first — is  not  that  very  curious?  A  rose  is 
very  red,  and  that  is  good.  Yes?  To  know  that 
the  red  is  that  which  the  rose  refuses  to  absorb  out  of 
the  light  that  comes  to  her — and  so  it  strikes  back  to 
our  eyes  and  we  see  red — is  that  so  good  as  to  know 
that  the  rose  is  red?  I  ask  you!  Music — it  comes 
and  frees  our  souls,  and  we  find  the  beautiful. 
Shall  we  think  of  sound-waves?  Is  it  not  silly  to 
worry  so  much  about  the  way  we  are  happy  so  long 
as  we  are  happy?  And  a  man  may  trace  everything 
to  brain-cells,  and  yet  he  may  not  know  what  to 
say  when  a  child  asks  him  why  his  ball  stops  rolling 
when  it  hits  the  wall." 

"I'll  be  glad  when  Arthur  Rale  goes  to  Europe. 
Marcia  says  he  is  going  before  long." 

"Europe.  Ah!"  Hild  looked  at  him  quickly. 
How  alone  he  stood  in  a  world  of  men!  She  had 
never  before  heard  him  express  a  personal  desire,  and 
now  it  was  only  voiced  in  two  words.  The  sound 

220 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

of  them  lingered  in  her  thoughts,  tinging  her  entire 
outlook  while  they  mounted  the  stairs  and  while  she 
moved  about  the  room  bringing  him  his  supper 
and  his  pipe.  When  she  handed  him  the  matches 
she  lingered  before  him.  Half  ashamed  of  herself, 
she  slipped  into  his  line  of  vision.  She  knew  that 
the  dampness  of  the  evening  had  waved  her  hair 
in  tender  curls  about  her  brow  and  neck  and  set  a 
fresh  color  on  her  cheeks.  She  knew,  and  was 
ashamed  of  knowing,  that  her  thin  blouse  and  shabby 
skirt  fitted  well,  and  that  her  lines  from  neck  to  knee 
had  a  charm  for  Jean,  as  for  any  man.  She  held 
herself  still,  her  eyes  lowered.  In  a  moment,  as  she 
knew  Jean  was  looking  at  her,  she  would  have 
raised  her  eyes  slowly — and  they  were  brown  eyes 
and  big  and  deep,  and  her  lips  were  red.  But 
before  that  moment  came  Jean  rose  and  moved  away. 
"I  think,"  he  said,  deliberately,  taking  his  fiddle 
from  its  case,  "that  one  day  we  will  have — what  you 
call — a  honeymoon."  He  could  look  at  her  now 
across  the  brown  body  of  his  violin.  "We  will  go 
away,  you  and  I,  and  we  will  see  and  do  strange 
things,  lovely  things.  I  will  teach  you  much.  I 
have  taught  you  hard  things,  it  is  true.  I  will 
teach  you  sweet  things  then.  It  is  a  difficult  thing 
to  be  a  wife.  You  must  know  when  to  entrance,  and 
when  not;  when  to  be  beautiful,  and  when  not. 
One  day  your  time  will  come.  But  not  yet.  I 
think  it  will  be  when  my  opera  is  called  great. 
That — I  think  will  be  your  day.  But  now — the 

221 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

soul  of  me  does  not  want  you.  It  is  exhausted — 
gone  from  me.  No,  I  do  not  want  you,  except  just 
for  use.  You  are  useful — yes.  I  say  it.  And  you 
have  learned  to  work.  Be  content.  For  the  present 
be  like  the  woman  who  lives  in  the  butcher's  shop. 
She  is  placid.  She  is  fat.  She  is  there  where  you 
expect  her  to  be.  Her  ringers — they  are  too  thick 
to  beckon;  her  figure — it  leaves  nothing  to  be 
imagined.  She  knows  what  is  looked  for  in  her,  and 
she  gives  no  more.  She  is  a  woman  who  would  be 
just  as  satisfactory  if  she  had  a  cold  in  her  head.  It 
would  not  matter.  You  understand?  It  is  this  I 
require  of  you.  I  have  explained." 

Hild  for  the  first  and  last  time  cried  out:  "Oh, 
Jean,  I  can't.  I'm  not  like  that." 

He  flung  aside  his  violin  and  took  her  by  the 
shoulders. 

"Understand!"  he  said.  "You  think  because  I 
have  let  you  go  on  that  I  am  a  fool.  I  am  not.  I 
know  what  to  do — yes,  very  well.  You  will  do  as 
I  say.  I  cannot  be  always  a  lover.  You  are  to  me 
to-day  familiar  as  that  old  cup  which  I  drink  from. 
What  is  there  for  me  to  find  out?  If  I  need  you 
I  call  you.  You  are  mine. 

"There  is  something  more.  A  day  will  come 
when  I  am  ready  for  you  to  be  my  hope  and  my  occu- 
pation. Then,  I  have  told  you,  we  will  tread  Eden. 
It  will  be  beautiful,  worth  every  pain.  And  all  the 
time  you  are  here  and  I  am  here  we  know  this  time 
will  some.  Now — no!  I  have  told  you  what  to 

222 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

do.  Do  it.  You  are  not  thick  and  ugly  like  the 
butcher's  wife.  But  you  are  a  woman — and  you 
do  not  need  to  look  at  me  with  eyes  like  two  immortal 
songs.  You  are  a  woman,  yes — and  if  you  will 
think  you  are  thick  and  ugly,  it  is  enough.  You 
will  not  disturb  me  then." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HILD  was  glad  when,  after  a  good  many  changes 
of  mind,  it  was  settled  that  Jean  should  conduct 
the  orchestra  on  the  first  night  of  the  production 
of  Brother.  She  did  not  know  how  otherwise  he 
would  manage  to  get  through  the  performance. 
She  had  visions  of  a  Jean  rampant,  charging  an  in- 
different audience.  She  felt  surer,  too,  of  success 
with  her  own  small  share  in  the  opera  if  she  could 
have  Jean's  baton  to  watch.  It  was  a  baton  to 
obey. 

The  day  of  success  or  failure  came  with  a  wild 
flurry  of  last  preparations.  There  was  a  rehearsal 
whenever  there  was  not  another  rehearsal.  Everett 
had  run  through  his  entire  and  considerable  collec- 
tion of  oaths,  and  had  drank  as  many  cocktails  as 
was  at  all  good  for  him.  Mme.  Cavari  was  driving 
around  and  around  Central  Park  in  her  motor  trying 
to  work  off  an  excess  of  nervousness.  She  confided 
to  Hild  that  if  she  did  not  break  down  and  run  away 
it  would  be  because  a  miracle  had  happened,  and 
Hild,  really  alarmed,  had  gone  to  Everett  with  a  face 
the  color  of  chalk.  When  Everett  heard  the  awful 
news  he  swore  loud  and  long. 

"She  break  down,"  he  stormed.  "Bless  yer 
224 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

innocent  young  heart!  Put  that  kind  of  breaking 
down  into  some  of  them  cabbage-heads  on  the  front 
line  of  the  chorus  and  ye'll  make  an  opera  of  it  and 
not  a  squalling-match." 

When  Hild  came  home  from  this  interview  she 
found  in  her  sitting-room  Jean,  Arthur  Rale,  and, 
to  her  immense  surprise  and  pleasure,  the  unex- 
pected figure  of  Mert  Massam.  It  was  a  Mert 
Massam  decorated  beyond  all  recognition  with  a 
frock-coat  of  enormous  size  and  a  pale-blue  tie  under 
the  leathery  creases  of  his  chin.  He  greeted  Hild 
with  one  of  the  rare  contortions  of  the  face  which 
he  intended  for  a  smile  and  submitted  a  limp  hand 
to  be  shaken.  Hild  brightened  to  all  he  called  to 
mind,  and  attacked  him  gaily  with  questions.  It 
appeared  that  he  had  been  saving  money  for  years, 
and  he  showed  her  with  monumental  pride  the  crisp 
bills  into  which  a  "regular  wheelbarrowful"  of 
pennies  had  been  converted.  He  had  hitherto  kept 
his  wealth  secret,  because,  as  he  said  with  a  twinkle, 
"they'd  be  wantin'  a  feller  to  buy  clothes,  er  some- 
thin'  he  didn't  want." 

Hild  admired  his  costume,  and  found  that  Senator 
Carson  had  bestowed  it  upon  him  years  before,  and 
it  had  been  carefully  put  away  with  the  pennies. 
"Miry  thought  it  was  fer  buryin'  me  in.  Nope. 
That  ain't  Mert  Massam.  They  can  bury  me  in 
a  potato  sack.  Don't  care." 

It  appeared  that  Rale  knew  of  a  room  in  the  house 
where  he  lived  which  Mert  could  have  for  the  night 

225 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

at  a  figure  which  he  announced  himself  prepared  to 
pay.  The  three  men  were  just  off  for  the  place. 
Hild  saw  that  Jean  was  restless,  and  she  let  him  go, 
but  as  he  turned  toward  the  door  she  called  him  back. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Arthur  Rale?"  she 
asked,  her  eyes  on  the  doorway  through  which  the 
young  man  had  passed. 

"How  should  I  know?  He  is  full  of  strangeness." 
Jean  was  impatient. 

"Jean,  there's  something  wrong  with  him,  really 
there  is,"  she  persisted. 

"I  do  not  attend  to  the  livers  of  my  friends.  No. 
It  is  not  my  business." 

Hild  was  touched  and  pleased  that  Mert  should 
have  dared  and  spent  so  much  to  hear  Jean's  opera. 
It  seemed  to  her  a  good  omen.  She  had  wonderful 
visions  of  all  the  desired  openings  of  closed  doors 
which  success  would  work.  It  was  that  to  which 
she  looked.  She  had  a  consciousness  of  constantly 
trying  to  possess  herself  of  something  infinitely 
valuable,  only  to  be  reached  through  her  life  with 
Jean,  and  toward  which  this  evening's  success  would 
certainly  carry  her.  He  had,  in  his  own  way,  prom- 
ised her  things.  He  had  directed  her  to  leave  the 
theater  as  soon  as  her  part  was  finished  and  to 
meet  him  at  Percer's.  This  excited  her.  It  was  so 
long  since  Jean  had  been  anything  to  her  personally 
that  the  idea  of  having  him  again  as  the  uncertain 
but  exhilarating  companion  of  a  few  months  before 
was  one  of  extraordinary  delight.  He  must  always 

226 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

direct  her  life,  but  he  could  also  exquisitely  enliven 
it,  and  it  was  this  for  which  she  hoped  with  throbbing 
heart. 

Jean  and  Hild  exchanged  no  word  before  they  left 
for  the  theater,  and  they  parted  as  soon  as  they 
reached  the  door.  Hild  would  have  liked  to  have 
given  a  touch  or  a  sound  of  sympathy  and  confidence. 
But  Jean's  face  daunted  her.  She  went  down  a 
long  tiled  passage  to  her  dressing-room  and  made 
herself  ready.  Then  she  went  into  the  wings, 
which  were  windy  and  full  of  perspiring  men.  At 
the  door  of  Cavari's  dressing-room  she  paused, 
wondering  if  she  dared  to  knock.  She  found  courage 
for  a  timid  rap,  and  was  let  in  and  seized  by  the 
singer,  put  down  in  a  chair,  and  told  to  keep  quiet 
or  she  would  be  shaken.  Hild  was  not  unused  to 
the  violences  of  artistic  nerves,  and  was  not  even 
surprised  when,  five  minutes  later,  she  was  asked  why 
in  the  name  of  all  that  was  damnable  she  could  not 
talk  and  keep  one's  mind  off  the  awful  failure  that 
was  coming.  Hild's  own  nerves  were  not  too  steady, 
and  she  eventually  made  an  escape.  She  found  the 
stage  alive  with  people  laughing  and  singing  in  spite 
of  Everett,  who  was  everywhere  trying  to  produce 
order,  being  himself  in  a  condition  of  frenzy.  Hild 
tried  to  get  an  idea  of  the  effectiveness  of  the  scene, 
but  only  its  artificiality  impressed  her.  The  real 
wooden  wash-tub  in  the  center  of  the  stage  ridiculed 
the  bare  sides  of  the  wings.  In  the  rusty  stove, 
which  had  seen  honest  service,  there  was  an  imitation 

227 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

fire.  Even  the  blue  apron  and  red-flannel  petticoat 
worn  by  the  child  reminded  Hild  of  the  satin  gown 
and  plumed  hat  in  which  the  trained  little  creature 
had  arrived  half  an  hour  before. 

The  men  who  had  been  experimenting  with  the 
lights  stopped  work.  A  prompter  took  his  place  near 
where  Hild  was  standing.  Hild  could  faintly  hear 
the  beginning  of  the  overture,  and  a  thrilling  realiza- 
tion caught  her  up,  every  vein  in  her  body  responding. 
Jean,  Jean!  She  said  his  name,  with  shining  eyes 
where  there  were  tears. 

It  seemed  only  a  moment  more  before  the  curtain 
was  rising,  and  the  music  swelling  across  the  stage 
drawing  Hild  as  if  it  had  been  magic.  The  delicate 
measures  of  the  child's  theme  preceded  Hild's  ap- 
pearance. She  had  only  to  look  in  at  the  window  and 
say  a  few  words  which  put  the  story  in  motion.  Her 
cue  came,  and  she  was  suddenly  there  before  the 
limitless  rows  of  faces,  watching  Jean's  baton  and 
feeling  with  sweeping  emotion  that  she  was  singing 
to  a  house  already  won.  As  she  made  her  exit 
Cavari  entered,  and  she  heard  the  rolling  applause 
that  greeted  her.  When  the  ovation  was  subdued 
Hild  heard  the  high  sure  voice  lift  itself  like  a  bar  of 
light.  As  she  listened  she  told  herself  with  a  voice 
that  shook:  "I  never  knew  it  was  so  lovely.  I  never 
knew  he  could  do  it." 

She  listened  to  the  tender  music  of  the  scene  be- 
tween Hannah  and  the  child,  and  heard  it  change  to 
disturbance,  and  then  to  a  low  note  of  fear  as  Garry 

228 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

tells  of  the  approaching  trouble.  She  could  see 
nothing  from  where  she  sat,  but  she  could  hear  ev- 
erything. She  knew  by  the  peculiar  theme  when 
Brother  entered,  standing  at  the  door.  She  followed 
every  word  and  gesture  of  the  actors  in  imagination, 
and  with  all  her  soul  she  listened  to  the  applause  that 
rose  on  the  other  side  of  the  fallen  curtain. 

In  Cavari's  room  five  minutes  later  she  found  Jean 
being  hugged,  Cavari  in  tears  of  joy,  and  Everett 
shaking  everybody  by  the  hand.  Hild  had  one 
short  appearance  in  the  second  act,  and  her  longest 
one  in  the  last  act,  when  she  had  to  tell  Hannah 
what  Brother  had  done  for  her  mother  during  the 
strike.  She  had  to  sing  the  words,  "I  feel  that  he  is 
my  brother,  too.  Every  one  feels  this,"  and  then 
her  share  was  over. 

The  telling-power  of  the  opera  seemed  to  increase 
steadily,  until  the  audience  was  so  packed  into  a 
concentrated  seeing  and  listening  body  that  Hild, 
looking  out  and  feeling  this,  was  frightened.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  the  success  of  the  thing  was  too 
complete,  that  it  was  impossible  that  it  should  go  on 
to  the  end  without  some  appalling  disaster.  She 
waited  in  panic  while  the  second  and  third  acts 
moved  on  smoothly.  At  the  end  of  the  third  act  a 
demonstration  took  place.  Men  stood  up  and 
shouted.  Women  snatched  the  roses  they  wore,  or 
the  violets,  and  flung  them  onto  the  stage.  Jean 
and  Cavari,  appearing  hand  in  hand,  set  the  house 
storming  upon  them.  Even  Hild  herself  had  to  go 

229 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

before  the  curtain,  and,  in  the  exuberance  of  the 
house,  got  her  share  of  approbation.  She  glanced 
toward  Hanbury's  box  to  see  his  face,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  Marcia  and  some  friends  of 
Cavari's  sat  there  alone.  She  supposed  he  must  be 
waiting  for  them  all  in  Cavari's  dressing-room,  but 
later,  when  she  went  there,  he  was  not  among  those 
who  surrounded  the  singer.  She  wondered  at  this, 
not  liking  it. 

She  had  not  thought  to  be  frightened  before,  but 
now  she  began  to  dread  her  own  appearance  in  the 
last  act.  When  her  cue  came  her  feet  stuck  to  the 
floor,  while  her  head  stuck  nowhere,  but  swam  as  on 
vasty  deeps.  By  some  means  unknown  to  herself 
she  projected  herself  upon  the  stage,  feeling  herself 
a  helpless  point  in  a  chaotic  universe.  Out  of  some- 
where she  saw  Jean's  baton  wave,  and  then  the 
hand  of  a  prompter  turning  the  leaves  of  his  book. 
Words  which  had  deserted  her  as  birds  desert  an  old 
nest  came  thronging  back,  and  she  opened  her  lips 
to  them,  singing,  as  she  could  hear,  beautifully. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  was  in  her  dressing-room, 
buttoning  her  blouse  with  fingers  that  missed  every- 
thing. Jean  had  told  her  not  to  wait  for  the  final 
tableau,  and  her  soul  was  bent  on  haste,  lest  she 
should  be  delayed.  She  put  on  a  small  hat  and  rain- 
coat, and  sped  on  her  way.  She  knew  the  etiquette 
of  Percer's,  and  was  not  afraid  to  go  there  alone. 
She  wanted  to  sit  there  in  the  familiar  atmosphere — 
smoky,  beery,  but  dear — and  dream  of  that  which  had 

230 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

actually  taken  place.  She  wanted  to  anticipate  the 
moment  when  Jean  should  come  to  her,  a  Jean  recog- 
nized, expressed,  complete.  Did  a  woman  ever 
hurry  with  such  a  purpose  before? 

The  opera  had  been  long,  and  the  street-cars  were 
crowded,  but  Hild  had  no  curiosity  for  the  girls  who 
swung  by  straps,  shouting  when  a  jolt  of  the  car 
sent  them  into  one  another's  arms,  nor  for  the  men 
of  sheepish  smiles  and  unaccustomed  garments  who 
were  their  escorts.  She  sat  quietly  in  her  corner, 
demure  to  look  at,  her  heart  in  such  a  turmoil  of 
excitement  as  one  of  these  highly  tuned  young  ladies 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  imagine.  Her  moment 
had  come,  and  she  had  almost  grasped  it  for  her  own. 
She  was  approaching  in  that  jolting  street-car  every- 
thing toward  which  she  had  yearned  and  labored. 
Her  small  hat  shaded  a  face  that  blushed  to  the 
thought.  The  glaring  lights  enveloped  her,  and  the 
voices  and  metallic  sounds  of  the  night  played 
about  her,  isolating  her.  She  clung  to  her  blue 
transfer  ticket  as  if  it  were  the  key  to  paradise. 

At  Percer's  she  spoke  a  few  words  to  a  man  in  au- 
thority. She  was  waiting  for  Jean,  she  said.  Might 
she  be  quiet  and  rest  till  he  came?  The  man  found 
her  a  place  by  the  piano,  partly  sheltered  from  the 
room.  She  could  see  the  tables  and  the  gathering 
together  of  the  curious  crowd.  Once  they  had 
seemed  all  alike  to  her,  people  of  another  and  a  lower 
world  than  her  own.  Now  she  could  separate  the 
different  elements  and  classify  them.  She  could  see 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

an  equal  in  the  girl  who  sat  with  a  man  at  a  small 
table  close  to  her,  enjoying  herself  hugely,  laughing 
loud  and  high,  remembering,  perhaps,  a  day  of  hard 
work  before  her  on  the  morrow  like  the  one  behind. 
A  couple  next  to  them,  silent  and  unamused,  took 
their  supper  with  a  relish,  and  got  up  to  leave  when 
it  was  done.  A  group  of  young  men  came  next, 
who  ogled  two  girls  at  another  table.  A  stolid 
workman  called  for  a  glass  of  beer  and  lingered  over 
it,  waiting  for  the  show  to  begin.  All  the  men 
smoked,  and  all  the  women  talked  and  laughed. 
Every  one  drank  beer  and  breathed  out  its  heavy 
fumes  into  the  heated  atmosphere.  Hild's  thoughts 
grew  incoherent  and  her  body  hot,  as  if  it  had  been 
wrapped  in  some  very  fine  warm  stuff.  But  still 
Jean  did  not  come. 

The  manager  came  to  her  once  and  asked  her  if  she 
would  not  sing  alone,  but  she  shook  her  head.  No 
doubt  she  might  have  to  wait  an  hour  longer,  she  re- 
flected. She  knewthat  Jean  mighthave  great  difficulty 
in  getting  away.  She  was  not  conscious  of  being  tired. 

It  was  about  twelve  that  some  one  who  came  into 
the  room  brought  exciting  news.  Every  one  who 
could  get  near  enough  listened  to  what  he  said  with 
immense  attention,  even  the  jolly  ones  sobering  when 
they  heard.  Hild  did  not  care  to  move  from  her 
position  of  retirement,  but  as  people  separated  to 
return  to  their  tables  she  could  gather  from  snatches 
of  their  talk  that  there  had  been  a  bomb-throwing 
somewhere  in  the  East  Side. 

232 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

As  it  grew  later  the  character  of  the  crowd  began 
to  change.  There  was  more  noise,  and  the  gaiety 
was  of  a  different  quality.  Hild  found  herself  con- 
stantly looking  away  from  faces  that  leaned  and 
peered.  She  could  not  see  the  dancer,  but  she 
could  hear  the  laughter  that  commented  upon  her 
performance.  There  were  songs  which  Hild  did  not 
understand.  Men  had  descended  into  an  enjoyment 
which  made  pouches  of  their  cheeks  and  reddened 
their  eyes.  Women,  not  happy,  Hild  thought,  but 
forgetful  that  they  were  not  happy,  laughed  and 
looked  and  drank.  Hild  saw  the  men  as  beasts,  the 
women  as  victims,  and  she  closed  her  eyes.  In  the 
red  darkness  behind  her  lids  she  began  to  be  afraid. 
The  fear  that  met  her  there  sent  alarm  messages 
along  every  nerve,  until  she  tingled  to  it  as  to  an 
electrical  shock.  She  opened  startled  eyes  and  saw 
that  a  woman  near  her  leaned  heavily  on  the  shoulder 
of  a  sailor  who  was  beyond  knowing  that  she  was 
there. 

The  watch  at  her  belt  told  her  that  it  was  nearly 
two.  Where  was  Jean,  and  what  kept  him? 

Jean  had  told  her  to  wait,  and  wait  she  would  until 
he  came  or  she  had  news  of  him.  In  any  case,  she 
was  safer  where  she  was  than  she  would  be  crossing 
the  room  and  going  out  alone.  She  looked  toward 
the  door  in  despair.  As  she  did  so  a  man  entered 
and,  seeing  her,  came  rapidly  toward  her.  She  made 
her  way  between  the  tables  to  meet  him.  It  was 
not  Jean. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

OUTSIDE  Percer's  Simeon  Pierce  helped  Hild 
into  a  brougham  and,  giving  an  order  to  the 
footman,  stepped  in  beside  her.  She  understood 
with  the  swiftness  of  women  that  she  must  prepare 
for  an  upheaval  of  the  prospect  before  her.  The 
self-control  learned  in  her  dealings  with  her  mother 
and  Jean  kept  her  silent  as  Simeon  turned  toward 
her. 

"Kontze  is  all  right,"  he  said,  "but  I've  got  bad 
news  for  you,  Hild,  and  that's  a  fact.  It's  awful!" 

"Where  is  Jean?" 

"Why — he's — you  needn't  be  afraid.  It  '11  turn 
out  all  right.  Only  there's  a  misunderstanding,  and 
they've  arrested  him." 

"Jean!  But  why?"  Hild's  utter  astonishment 
caught  Simeon's  attention. 

"Honestly,  don't  you  know?" 

"Know?  Has  he  got  into  a  fight  with  somebody 
about  the  opera?" 

"No.  The  opera  went  like  blazes.  It  all  hap- 
pened afterward.  You  must  have  known  that  he 
was  mixed  up  with  Hanbury  and  that  lot." 

"Why,  of  course!  We  know  Hanbury.  What 
has  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 

234 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

"Well —  It's  an  awful  pity  you  and  Kontze  had 
anything  to  do  with  him.  That's  a  fact.  You 
lived  in  the  same  house,  too!" 

"Yes.     Is  he  arrested,  too?'* 

"N-no.     He's  dead — or  just  as  good." 

"Dead?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say.  Say,  Hild,  it's  a  go,  and  no  mis- 
take. All  I  know  is,  Hanbury  got  up  and  went  out 
half-way  through  the  evening  and  must  have  gone 
straight  to  the  house  where  this  fellow  was.  Nobody 
knows  if  he  went  to  stop  the  business  or  what. 
They  don't  even  know  what  the  plot  was.  Anyhow, 
the  bomb  exploded,  and  this  Gale  or  Rale — " 

"Arthur  Rale!"  ejaculated  Hild,  convinced. 

"You  know  him,  too?" 

"Why — "  Hild  stopped  on  the  edge  of  her  words. 
"Yes,"  she  finished. 

"Well,  it  was  in  his  place  the  bomb  was,  and  I 
can't  make  much  out  of  the  facts  so  far,  but  they 
look  ugly." 

"Was-     What  happened?" 

"  Rale  was  killed  like  a  shot,  and  Hanbury  stunned. 
They  say  he's  dying.  I  was  in  the  theater  when 
Kontze  was  arrested,  and  I  went  along  to  give  him 
advice.  He  told  me  to  get  you  and  take  you  to 
Mme.  Cavari's." 

"Where  is  Hanbury?" 

"I  don't  know.  Cavari  rushed  off  right  away. 
She's  sure  to  be  with  him.  I'm  awfully  sorry  for 
her,  Hild." 

16  23S 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"Yes." 

"Look  here,  Hild.  You'll  let  me  run  this  case  for 
you  and  Kontze,  won't  you?  He  seemed  willing. 
I'd  be  awfully  glad  if  you  would." 

"Why,  of  course.  Only  now  I  can't  get  it,  any  of 
it,  through  my  head." 

"Never  mind."  He  patted  her  head.  "Never 
you  mind!  It'll  be  all  right.  I'd  just  like  you  to 
tell  me,  though — was  your  husband  mixed  up  with 
this  business?" 

"Jean!"  Hild's  back  straightened,  and  protests 
danced  in  her  mind,  not  one  of  which  she  could  tie 
to  words.  "Why,  Jean,"  she  stammered,  chasing 
the  elusive  but  never-to-be-questioned  things,  "he 
cares  for  nothing  but  his  work.  He  hasn't  an  idea 
beyond  that — he — he — doesn't  believe  in  these 
things.  Why,  Arthur  Rale  would  talk  by  the  hour — " 

Simeon  turned  a  head. 

"I  mean — "  Hild  stopped  upon  a  pause.  "I'll 
tell  you  everything  I  know,"  she  said,  pitifully. 
"Simeon,  you're  not  my  enemy.  You  must  believe 
me.  You  must!  Jean  couldn't  harm  any  one.  He 
is  great,  splendid,  above  things  like  that.  I  know, 
but  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you.  You  do  believe 
me,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  Hild;  I  do.  And  that's  why  I  want 
you  to  let  me  handle  the  case  first.  A  lot  of  lawyers 
wouldn't  be  convinced,  you  know,  just  because  you 
believed  a  thing.  But — well,  I  am.  I  said  to  my- 
self right  away:  'Hild's  husband  didn't  do  that. 

236 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

He  wrote  the  music,  and  he  isn't  a  blackguard.' 
That's  the  reason  I  think  I  can  do  better  for  you 
than  anybody  else." 

Hild  did  not  answer,  but,  leaning  back  in  her 
corner,  let  the  rare  lights  play  for  seconds  at  a  time 
over  her  set  face  and  quiet  hands.  She  looked 
fearfully  at  a  heap  of  broken  hopes,  and  winced  as 
she  might  have  done  at  the  sight  of  a  wound  on  the 
body  of  some  one  she  loved. 

At  Cavari's  door  a  servant  met  them.  Mme. 
Cavari,  she  said,  had  telephoned  to  ask  Mme. 
Kontze  to  go  on  at  once  to  St.  Edward's  hospital. 
Hild,  wondering,  was  tucked  in  once  more,  and  the 
horses  lifted  drooping  heads,  their  hoofs  sounding 
sharply  on  the  quiet  pavement.  Simeon  was  dis- 
turbed at  this  summons.  They  had  not  far  to  go 
and  were  expected,  Simeon  found  on  inquiry.  A 
nurse  took  Hild  in  charge  in  the  white  light  of  the 
passage,  and  Hild  followed  her  down  corridors  with 
shining  walls  and  countless  doors  and  odors  like 
dreary  words  until  they  came  to  a  threshold  where 
they  stopped.  Tapping,  and  whispering  to  some 
one  inside,  the  nurse  motioned  Hild  to  enter. 

If  some  one  else  had  lain  on  the  high,  narrow  bed 
Hild  would  have  been  frightened,  but  Hanbury 
seemed  to  her  suddenly  as  much  himself  dying  as 
living.  There  were  bandages  about  his  high  brow 
and  under  his  chin,  and  closed  eyelids  showed.  But 
he  was  there.  A  long  thin  hand  lay  pallid  upon  a 
sheet. 

237 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

Hild  saw  him  before  she  saw  Nellie,  who  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bed.  There  were  no  words.  Hild 
never  once  thought  of  asking  why  she  had  been 
called  to  see  this  stranger  die.  She  waited  with  the 
others,  as  if  for  a  miracle. 

The  dawn  was  turning  gray  the  shapes  in  the  room. 
The  nurse  turned  out  a  light.  Nellie  leaned  closer, 
watching,  and  Hild  looked  to  see  if  the  sheet  really 
moved  over  the  low  chest.  As  she  looked  there 
came  a  raising  of  heavy  shoulders,  a  gasp,  horrible 
to  hear,  a  startled  opening  of  glazing  eyes,  one  swift 
look  of  consciousness  straight  upon  Hild;  and  then, 
as  she  started  forward  as  if  she  had  been  called,  the 
face  she  leaned  to  emptied  like  an  upturned  glass, 
and  doctors  were  there  working,  hastily,  hopelessly, 
and  a  nurse  brought  a  mirror  that  came  unblurred 
away  from  blue  lips. 

There  came  confused  moments,  and  one  when 
Hild  put  her  arms  around  Nellie  and  they  leaned 
on  each  other. 

"We  had  better  go  home  and  come  back  later?" 
Nellie  asked  the  nurse,  who  nodded  kindly. 

The  motor  had  replaced  the  brougham;  and,  driving 
toward  Nellie's  flat  in  the  harsh  morning  brightness, 
Hild  heard  what  afterward  she  thought  she  had 
always  known. 

"He  was  your  father,"  Cavari  told  her.  "I  knew 
it — he  told  me  on  the  night  you  met  him  just  after 
your  marriage.  He  was  so  lonely.  I  wanted  him 

338 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

to  tell  you.  He  never  would.  I  think  he  felt  that 
you  would  think  of  your  mother's  stories — you  know 
she  imagined  a  lot.  But  he  would  not  have  said 
that.  He  liked  the  way  you  pulled  your  marriage 
around.  He  spoke  of  that  to  me.  He  said  you  were 
succeeding.  He  hated  failure.  I'm  glad  he  died. 
He  had  begun  to  see  how  little  he  could  do.  It 
would  have  driven  him  mad  some  day.  He  is  better 
off  where  he  is.  But  I  am  the  loneliest  woman  on 
earth." 

They  separated  to  different  rooms  at  Cavari's  flat, 
but  Hild  could  not  sleep.  An  unreasoning  longing 
for  the  country  took  her  to  the  window,  where  smoke 
and  shiny  roofs  rewarded  her.  Tragedy  had  come 
to  her  to  sway  her  on  to  a  trackless  plane  of  sensa- 
tion. It  seemed  unbelievable  that  she  should  ever 
again  eat  and  sleep  and  mend  her  clothes.  These 
things  had  no  place  in  a  life  where  people  had 
fathers  who  died  and  husbands  who  were  imprisoned. 
She  looked  over  the  housetops  and  thought  of  April 
at  home. 

At  eight  Cavari  found  her  and  made  her  come  to 
breakfast.  While  they  sat  over  their  coffee  and 
talked  of  Jean  the  papers  were  brought  in  to  them. 
Fame  and  notoriety  were  certainly  upon  them  all. 
From  every  morning  sheet  photographs  of  Jean, 
Hanbury,  Rale,  Cavari  herself,  stared,  around  which 
columns  of  type,  large  and  small,  dealt  with  the 
bomb-throwing,  the  brilliancy  of  the  opera,  the 
arrest  of  Jean,  the  deaths  of  Rale  and  Hanbury,  the 

239 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

beauty  of  Hild,  the  genius  of  Cavari,  and  elaborate 
details  of  the  whole  eventful  night,  most  of  them 
wrong  and  many  fantastic.  Hanbury,  according  to 
one  paper,  had  died  in  the  ambulance;  another  said 
his  body  had  not  been  found;  another  that  Mme. 
Cavari  had  insisted  on  taking  him  to  his  house  in 
Seventy-fifth  Street  (it  was  a  flat  on  Fifty-ninth). 

One  reporter  had  seen  Hild  clinging  to  her  hus- 
band's neck  while  ruthless  officers  tore  him  away; 
another  had  had  an  interview  with  her  at  the 
Fulton  Hotel;  a  third  was  informed  that  she  was 
prostrated  with  grief.  While  they  were  still  trying 
to  find  the  grain  of  wheat  in  the  chaff"  both  tele- 
phone and  door  were  bombarded.  Cavari's  lawyer 
called  with  Simeon  and  advised  Hild  as  to  a  state- 
ment. She  faced  four  or  five  reporters  at  once  and 
told  them,  elaborately,  nothing.  Meanwhile  Simeon 
and  Alford  were  able  to  tell  Hild  and  Nellie  as  nearly 
as  possible  all  that  was  known  of  the  bomb-throwing. 
Clearly  young  Rale  had  intended  to  do  mischief,  and 
it  was  thought  that  a  certain  body  of  anarchists  was 
behind  the  plot.  Jean  had  unfortunately  been 
proved  to  have  been  with  Rale  considerably  and  to 
have  been  present  with  the  boy  at  some  meetings 
which  had  been  of  a  suspicious  character. 

There  had  been  other  arrests  in  connection  with 
the  matter,  and  these  men  were  sure  to  be  convicted. 

Why  Hanbury  had  gone  to  Rale's  rooms  during  the 
opera  and  what  had  passed  between  the  men  no  one 
knew,  but  Rale  had  certainly  tried  to  escape  with 

240 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

the  bomb  in  a  satchel,  and  in  some  way,  by  accident 
or  design,  the  explosion  had  come.  The  house  was 
partially  wrecked,  but  no  one  else  had  been  killed 
or  seriously  injured.  The  affair  was  mysterious,  and 
they  must  solve  the  mystery  far  enough  to  free  Jean 
of  blame. 

In  the  mean  time  the  opera  was  a  phenomenal 
success — advertised  in  a  phenomenal  way.  Everett, 
in  a  state  of  flurry,  called  to  bully  the  women  into 
promising  that  they  would  not  fail  him  that  night. 
They  made  wax  of  his  iron  front  by  reassuring  him 
at  once,  and  had  to  submit  to  his  picturesque  blessings. 

Later  Simeon  and  Hild  made  their  way  into  the 
old  part  of  the  city  where  the  Tombs  stands,  sym- 
bolically placed,  the  center  to  which  wretched  streets 
lead.  Hild  was  astonished  when  she  arrived  to  find 
a  crowd  at  the  entrance  waiting  to  see  her.  She 
did  not  know  how  to  avoid  the  photographers.  The 
formalities  necessary  before  they  were  admitted 
chilled  her.  At  last,  however,  they  found  them- 
selves before  a  heavy  door,  and  Jean  sprang  up  to 
greet  them. 

"But  is  it  not  glorious?"  he  asked,  seizing  Hild  by 
the  arm.  "Is  it  not  magnificent?  The  world — she 
has  come  to  her  senses,  and  I — I  have  come  into  my 
own." 

Hild  looked  at  the  bare  walls  and  the  barred 
window;  then  she  looked  at  Simeon,  who  was  staring 
at  Jean. 

"It  has  come.  I  have  hoped,  I  have  starved, 
241 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

feared,  and  despaired.  And  now  I  have  arrived. 
I  need  no  longer  sing  to  the  deaf.  No.  The  world 
— her  ears  are  open  and  she  hears.  The  message 
I  carry  like  a  golden  weight,  precious  but,  oh,  heavy 
on  my  heart,  at  last  I  am  delivered  of  it.  I  am 
happy.  There  was  never  any  one  so  happy  as  I. 
Last  night  I  knew,  but  I  could  not  believe;  this 
morning  I  believe.  It  is  the  moment  for  which  I 
have  lived." 

"The  papers  are  full  of  it,"  said  Hild,  softly.  "It 
is  lovely,  only,  Jean,  you  know  we've  got  to  talk 
business." 

"Business?  Do  we  not  talk  business  now?" 
Jean  looked  at  Simeon.  "Oh  yes,  I  know.  Mr. 
Pierce,  he  said  much  last  night  that  I  did  not  hear. 
I  was  occupied  with  important  things.  I  do  not 
very  well  understand  why  I  am  here.  The  police- 
men, they  joke  very  much,  but  that  did  not  help. 
It  is  not  well  that  I  should  be  locked  up.  It  is  very 
silly.  Mr.  Pierce,  he  knows  a  great  deal.  He  must 
tell  me  how  to  get  out.  I  had  better  understand. 
There  are  not  very  many  chairs.  Hild  can  sit  on 
the  bed." 

Simeon  had  been  busy  early  in  the  day  looking  into 
the  charges  against  Jean.  Of  course  there  would 
be  preliminary  proceedings  when,  if  Jean  were  com- 
mitted for  trial,  they  would  try  to  get  bail  for  him. 
Simeon  intimated  that  there  was  little  hope  of  clear- 
ing him  without  a  trial,  as  feeling  was  very  high  in 
the  matter. 

242 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

Simeon  drew  out  papers  and  began  to  put  the  case 
to  Jean  as  clearly  as  he  could,  making  notes  as  Jean 
answered  a  question  here  and  there. 

"Can  you  tell  me  anything  in  the  way  of  proof 
that  you  had  no  knowledge  of  this  business?  You 
see,  Colhart  is  a  weak-minded  boy,  and  he  may  con- 
fess. You've  got  to  provide  for  everything." 

"I  was  a  fool,"  Jean  said,  slowly.  "It  is  clear. 
Hild — she  said  to  me,  *  Do  not  go  so  much  to  places 
with  Arthur  Rale.'  I  say,  'Do  not  trouble  me.'  I 
do  not  like  trouble.  No.  I  am  made  foolish.  It  is 
my  lot.  One  must  accept  one's  lot — but  it  is  a  pity. 
My  lot  it  is  to  be  a  genius  and  foolish  at  once.  Very 
well.  There  are  things  that  are  worse." 

Simeon  cast  a  look  at  Hild.     She  did  not  hesitate. 

"You  did  not  know  of  this  plot,  Jean?  Tell  us 
that." 

"Know?  No,  I  did  not.  But  I  might  have.  I 
see  that.  My  head  was  full  of  music.  I  saw  Arthur 
Rale  on  that  afternoon,  and  he  talked  strangely.  I 
recall  that.  I  might  have  known.  But — if  I  were 
not  a  fool,  should  I  be  a  genius?  That  is  it!" 

Before  Hild  left  she  had  a  word  alone  with  Jean. 
She  caught  him  by  the  sleeve  and  said,  hurriedly: 
"Please  say  something  that  will  comfort  me.  You 
don't  know — you  don't  know — "  She  choked,  and 
Jean  looked  down  at  her. 

"Comfort?  Do  not  be  silly.  Comfort  is  for  those 
whose  work  is  done — the  dying  and  the  idle!  Do 
not  ask  me  for  comfort.  Are  you  not  my  wife  the 

243 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

same?     Have  you  not  to  do  everything  for  me? 
Very  well.     Then  do  not  talk  about  comfort." 

That  night  the  theater  where  the  performance 
of  Brother  took  place  was  bombarded  by  the  half 
of  New  York  that  could  afford  a  ticket.  Everett 
said  he  had  never  seen  such  a  house.  A  point  had 
been  stretched  in  the  matter  of  standing-room,  and 
a  patient  crowd  waited  from  the  first  opening  of  the 
doors  while  the  lucky  holders  of  reserved  seats  filed 
in.  The  affair  of  the  bomb-throwing  and  Jean's 
arrest,  combined  with  the  striking  success  of  the 
opera  itself,  insured  Brother  such  a  "run"  as  even 
New  York  had  never  before  witnessed.  They 
would  all  be  rolling  in  money  long  before  the  end  of 
the  season,  Everett  predicted. 

Everett  was  in  a  state  of  distraction  during  the 
evening,  fearing  for  Cavari's  nerves,  but  the  singer 
carried  her  part  nobly  to  its  close.  Then,  so  tired  as 
to  be  half  dead,  she  went  home  with  Hild,  carrying 
all  her  flowers  away  to  the  quiet  room  where  lay  all 
that  remained  to  her  of  her  youth  and  happiness. 
Hild  watched  her  arrange  the  flowers. 

"I  don't  suppose  he  would  understand,"  said 
Cavari,  laying  a  red  rose  on  the  ebony  of  the  coffin 
lid,  "but  there  are  a  great  many  things  he  didn't 
understand.  God  will." 

The  following  days  brought  the  dreary  funeral 
and  the  formal  committing  of  Jean  for  trial.  He 
was  refused  bail,  as  Simeon  had  feared  he  would  be. 
Simeon  worked  hard  to  postpone  the  trial,  knowing 

244 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

that  public  feeling  would  be  more  favorable  later  on. 
In  the  mean  time  he  was  active  in  Jean's  behalf. 
Hild  had  told  him  all  she  knew  of  the  case,  and  Jean 
himself  made  it  clear  enough  to  Simeon  that  he  was 
innocent  of  the  charges  against  him. 

To  Hild  the  complete  success  of  the  opera  had  a 
bitter  irony.  She  thought  with  envy  of  the  early  days 
of  her  marriage.  An  ingenious  fate  had  disclosed 
to  Hild  the  welding  of  her  life  in  Jean's  at  the 
moment  when  division  from  his  was  menaced.  She 
had  lost  her  courage  and  could  not  regain  it,  but  she 
struggled  to  disguise  her  weakness  and  did  not  fail. 
A  piece  of  good  fortune,  which  was  really  welcome 
to  her,  was  the  considerable  fortune  with  which  her 
father's  will  provided  her.  He  had  died  at  the 
moment  when  his  securities  were  at  high-water 
mark,  and  his  lawyers  were  able  to  realize  at  once 
and  hand  to  Hild  some  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars.  This  enabled  her  to  direct  Simeon  to  engage 
the  most  capable  legal  assistance  in  the  defense  of 
Jean,  which  was,  for  the  moment,  all  she  cared  about. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

NEW  YORK  never  forgot  that  trial.  Long  be- 
fore it  came  about  public  feeling  had  veered 
with  the  ease  of  a  barometer  needle  from  one  extreme 
to  the  other.  The  immense  popularity  of  Jean's 
music  and  the  efforts  of  Jean's  wife  were  factors  in 
the  change. 

One  by  one  the  papers  "came  around"  to  Jean's 
side,  and  the  selecting  of  the  jury  was  made  difficult 
by  the  partiality  of  the  men.  Even  Hild  came  to  feel 
that  there  was  little  chance  of  an  unfavorable  ver- 
dict. Simeon  and  Mr.  Alford  assured  her  that  the 
acquittal  was  a  practical  certainty.  Jean  kept  his 
serenity  and  his  patience  to  a  remarkable  degree,  and 
showed  his  shrewdness  in  the  way  in  which  he  re- 
sponded to  his  advisers'  hints. 

The  matter  of  the  trial  once  over,  all  surely  would 
be  plain  sailing,  thought  Hild.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  Jean's  recognition  as  a  musician.  The  sym- 
phonic poem  which  he  had  composed  soon  after 
Hild's  return  had  been  performed  with  enthusiastic 
receptions  in  Boston  and  New  York  and  was  to  be 
given  in  London  soon.  Commissions  were  too  nu- 
merous to  execute.  A  famous  dancer  begged  for  a 
ballet.  The  fame  which  had  been  withheld  so  long 

246 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

had  come  in  generous  proportions  at  last.  Hild  s 
money  would  make  them  independent,  and  Jean 
could  work  to  every  advantage.  The  days  of  hard- 
ship and  poverty  were  over.  Once  free,  he  had  only 
to  reap  a  harvest  of  glorious  things.  It  was  the 
very  completeness  of  the  change  in  the  aspect  of  their 
life  that  made  Hild  fear  the  unexpected. 

Mrs.  Emery  had  joined  Hild  early  in  the  summer, 
and  they  had  taken  an  up-town  apartment  where 
they  could  keep  reasonably  cool.  Hild's  mother  had 
resumed  all  her  old  allegiance  to  Jean,  and  the  two 
got  on  most  happily  in  their  rare  meetings.  Chloe 
Masterman  had  sailed  in  on  Hild  one  day  in  June. 
She  and  her  husband  had  extended  their  six  months' 
honeymoon  to  a  year,  and  Chloe's  head  was  as  full 
of  fine  sights  as  her  trunks  of  gorgeous  apparel. 
Oh  yes,  papa  had  forked  out.  He  simply  had  to, 
you  know.  It  was  too  ridiculous  to  ask  them  to  get 
along  on  their  allowance.  It  wasn't  as  if  she  was 
extravagant!  Why,  Alec's  sister  brought  back 
nearly  as  many  clothes  as  she  did,  and  didn't  even 
try  to  evade  the  customs.  That  was  what  Chloe 
called  throwing  away  money!  As  for  Alec,  he  was  a 
regular  fusser.  He  fussed  over  cab  fares  abroad,  and 
now  that  they  had  a  flat,  he  fussed  over  the  electric 
light.  As  if  you  could  see  in  the  dark!  Didn't  Hild 
think  that  New  York  was  awful?  So  crude  after 
Europe.  Only  the  women  certainly  did  have  good 
clothes!  Hild  listened  patiently  to  such  observa- 
tions, but  she  was  very  glad  when  Chloe  betook  her- 

247 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

self  and  her  trunks  to  Narragansett.  She  heard  from 
Simeon  that  Alec  was  busy  in  Wall  Street  and  doing 
pretty  well.  "He  runs  down  to  see  Chloe  from 
Saturdays  to  Mondays,"  he  explained.  "I  guess 
they'll  get  on  all  right." 

Brother  had  run  on  far  into  the  summer  and 
was  revived  some  weeks  before  Jean's  trial  took 
place.  When  the  trial  came  on  the  theater  and  the 
courtroom  were  equally  popular.  The  people  who 
had  seen  Jean  in  the  afternoon  facing  the  charge  of 
conspiracy  went  to  hear  at  night  the  music  which 
had  made  him  so  notable  a  figure.  The  people  who 
had  heard  his  music  went  to  court  to  see  the  man  who 
had  produced  it. 

Hild  understood  little  of  the  proceedings,  but  she 
well  understood  the  temper  of  the  crowd.  She  sat 
near  Simeon  during  the  giving  of  the  evidence, 
listening  closely  to  all  that  was  said.  The  evidence 
for  the  prosecution  was  tedious,  consisting  mainly  in 
proving  Jean's  connection  with  Rale.  It  was  obvious 
to  the  most  inexperienced  that  so  far  there  was  very 
little  to  base  a  charge  of  conspiracy  upon.  There 
was,  however,  more  to  come,  and  it  was  here  that 
the  unexpected  justified  Hild  in  expecting  it. 

The  crowded  room  with  its  atmosphere  of  breath- 
ing humanity  swayed  in  thick  waves  about  Hild. 
She  looked  at  Jean,  who  moved  as  she  looked.  He 
always  stirred  underneath  her  glance,  as  if  he  were 
subjectively  conscious  of  it.  His  face  was  worn 
thin  and  fine  from  confinement  and  inactivity. 

248 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

Could  it  be  possible  that  in  a  few  hours  he  would  be 
free  in  a  new  world  that  had  only  generous  welcome 
for  him?  Watching  him,  Hild  let  her  thoughts 
sweep  ahead  to  a  moment  when  they  should  be  alone 
and  all  the  future  theirs.  Simeon,  rustling  some 
papers  near  her,  wavered  unreal,  so  intent  she  was 
upon  focusing  the  prospect.  Perhaps  that  was  why 
she  did  not  hear  the  clerk  name  the  new  witness. 
When  she  dropped  upon  the  present  once  more 
Marcia  Rale  was  in  the  witness-box  in  the  act  of 
taking  the  oath. 

It  was  a  surprise  to  see  Marcia  at  all,  for  it  was 
months  since  she  had  been  visible  to  any  of  her 
friends.  Hild  had  not  speculated  much  as  to  her 
location.  Her  presence  did  not  alarm  Hild,  but  her 
failure  to  meet  Hild's  glance  did.  Even  then  she 
had  no  suspicion  of  what  was  coming. 

Asked  to  tell  what  she  knew  of  Jean's  relations 
with  Rale  and  his  connection  with  the  plans  of  the 
preceding  April,  Marcia  began  her  narrative,  which 
from  the  first  omissions  from  and  additions  to  the 
truth,  slight  enough  in  themselves,  went  on  through 
falsification  of  facts  and  circumstances  until  sud- 
denly Hild  saw — saw  in  the  faces  of  the  jury  and  the 
eyes  of  the  judge,  in  Simeon's  stir  of  alert  attention — 
that  a  new  light  unfavorable  to  Jean  was  being 
thrown  upon  the  case.  For  Marcia  was  slowly, 
painstakingly,  consistently  shifting  upon  Jean  the 
suspicion  of  having  incited  Rale  to  violence.  She 
described  the  beginning  and  the  growth  of  their 

249 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

intimacy,  and  her  own  gradual  estrangement  from 
her  brother,  corresponding  in  time  with  his  friend- 
ship with  Kontze  and  rumors  which  reached  her  of 
his  connection  with  secret  revolt.  She  repeated  a 
part  of  Jean's  first  speech  at  the  Artists'  Club,  and 
told  her  hearers  of  her  brother's  excited  approval 
of  it.  She  testified  to  Jean's  frequent  presence 
at  meetings  which  Arthur  would  not  allow  her 
to  attend.  She  went  on  to  the  afternoon  of  the 
fifteenth  of  April,  when  she  had  seen  her  brother 
for  a  moment.  He  had  given  her  a  ring  which  had 
been  their  father's,  and  had  told  her  to  keep  it  for  him 
as  if  he  were  going  into  danger.  Immediately  after- 
ward she  had  seen  him  go  to  Jean's  room  and  leave 
the  house  in  company  with  Jean  and  a  rough-looking 
man.  She  had  been  alarmed  enough  to  follow  them, 
and  had  seen  them  enter  Rale's  place.  Returning  to 
the  house  later,  she  had  seen  Colhart,  the  boy  now 
under  arrest,  coming  out.  She  had  gone  to  find 
Hanbury,  hoping  to  secure  his  advice,  but  had  not 
been  able  to  get  at  him,  and  she  had  gone  to  the 
theater  that  night  solely  with  the  purpose  of  talking 
to  him  about  her  brother.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
act  he  had  received  a  note,  which  he  had  handed 
on  to  her,  and  he  had  left  the  theater  at  once.  The 
note  would  be  submitted  to  the  court  for  inspection. 
The  district  attorney  rose  and  read  it  aloud. 
"It  is  very  badly  spelled,"  he  explained,  "but  the 
sense  is  as  follows:  *  There's  trouble  here.  You 
better  come.  Jean  Kontze  knows.  Young  Rale's 

250 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

going  to  Grand  Central  station  ten  o'clock.     Guess 
he  means  hell.'     It  is  not  signed." 

The  noise  that  broke  upon  the  scene  deafened 
Hild.  She  turned  eyes  on  Marcia  that  drew  a 
glance,  and  the  two  encountered  each  other.  When 
Hild  withdrew  from  the  onslaught  she  saw  that 
Jean  was  talking  rapidly  to  Simeon,  and  that  Simeon 
nodded  from  time  to  time,  intent  on  listening. 
Marcia's  evidence  was  complete,  and  Simeon  turned 
from  Jean  to  put  to  her  a  series  of  sharp  questions, 
which,  however,  shook  her  but  little.  With  patience 
Simeon  separated  what  she  knew  from  what  she 
imagined,  but  there  remained  the  intimacy  between 
Jean  and  Rale,  the  association  with  the  group  of 
revolutionists,  as  they  called  themselves,  the  in- 
criminating circumstances  of  the  afternoon,  and  the 
note.  During  the  evidence  against  Colhart  and 
Manahan  it  had  appeared  that  a  plot  certainly  had 
been  formed  for  a  bomb-throwing,  and  that  Colhart 
and  two  other  men,  who  had  since  disappeared,  had 
met  in  Rale's  rooms  near  the  hour  when  Jean  had 
been  seen  to  go  there  in  company  with  Rale  and  a 
stranger. 

After  Marcia's  cross-examination  the  adjournment 
for  the  day  was  moved  and  the  case  for  the  prosecu- 
tion was  complete. 

At  the  apartment  Hild  and  her  mother  shared 

grave  discussion  between  Hild,  Simeon,  and  Alford 

lasted  late.     Together  they  went  over  the  notes  of 

Marcia's  testimony.     Here  and  there  Hild  was  able 

17  251 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

to  throw  light  upon  it.  In  more  than  one  place  she 
could  give  evidence  to  greatly  mitigate  its  effect. 
But  there  was  no  doubt  that  the  case  had  taken  a 
grim  turn  against  Jean.  Alford  was  shrouded  in 
gloom,  but  Simeon  seemed  only  stimulated  by  the 
danger  of  defeat.  He  said  to  Hild,  privately: 
"I've  got  wind  of  something  that  may  make  'em 
feel  pretty  sick.  You  just  wait."  And  Hild  was 
cheered. 

"  Do  you  think  there  would  be  any  use  in  your  see- 
ing Miss  Rale?"  Mr.  Alford  asked. 

"What  use  could  there  be  in  it?"  asked  Hild, 
reddening. 

"You  were  friends?" 

"Yes  and  no.  We  were  good  enough  friends  in  one 
way,  but  I  never  knew  what  she'd  do  next.  I've 
just  remembered.  She  told  me  not  long  ago  that 
while  I  was  away  she  went  and  offered  to  help  Jean. 
I  don't  know  why  she  did  it.  He  refused.  He 
never  told  me  anything  about  it." 

"Then  he  didn't  tell  you  everything!"  said  Alford. 

Hild  flushed  again. 

"You  don't  understand  a  bit.  He  didn't  tell  me 
everything,  that  is  true,  just  because  things  weren't 
important  to  him  in  the  way  they  are  to  you  and  me. 
Just  the  same,  I  know  more  about  Jean  than  most 
women  know  about  their  husbands.  If  you  told  me 
he  had  knocked  a  man  down  on  the  street  corner 
I  wouldn't  dare  say  you  were  lying.  That's  the  sort 
of  thing  he  might  do.  That's  his  temper — it  goes  to 

252 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

his  muscles  without  ever  getting  near  his  soul.  If 
you  don't  see  what  I  mean  you're  awfully  stupid. 
But  his  soul!  Why,  it's  as  big  and  fine  as  some  of 
the  cathedrals  he's  told  me  about,  and  once  any- 
thing has  a  chance  to  pass  through  it  it  comes  out 
right.  That's  the  reason  I  know  he  couldn't  any 
more  plan  anything  wrong  than  I  could  kill  a  kitten. 
His  thoughts  are  right,  whatever  his  actions  may  be. 
And  he  isn't  resentful.  Why,  things  happen  to  him 
that  would  make  you  hard  and  bitter,  but  he — he 
never  even  speaks  of  them.  I  don't  believe  he  ever 
thinks  of  them  more  than  he  has  to.  Just  the  same, 
he  might  swear  at  me  if  I  boggled  an  accompaniment 
or  dropped  a  plate.  That's  Jean." 

"Hm!  A  character  that  may  be  fascinating  to 
analyze,  but  really  is  not  easy  to  defend,  Mme. 
Kontze." 

"No,  I  suppose  it  isn't.  But  I  don't  care.  It's 
the  genius  in  him  that  won't  be  defended,  because  it's 
too  splendid.  I'll  tell  you  who  understood  Jean, 
Simeon,  Mert  Massam.  He's  just  a  loafer  in  our 
town,"  she  explained  to  Mr.  Alford,  "but  he  says 
awfully  funny  things  sometimes,  and  he  has  such 
a  funny  way  of  saying  them.  He  said  to  me  the 
last  time  I  was  in  Beverly:  'That  Kontze!  Try  to 
talk  about  him — say  rot!  He's  there,  though. 
Can't  git  'round  it.  Think  'bout  it.  Smoke  a  pipe 
on  it.  Don't  talk  'bout  it.  Make  doggone  fool  of 
yourself  if  you  do.  Can't  make  doggone  fool  of  him 
nohow.  Men  fought  in  Civil  War.  Brave.  You 

253 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

bet.  Think  'bout  it,  smoke  pipe  on  it,  but  talk 
'bout  it?  Put  a  statue  up  like  the  one  in  the  Park — 
foolish-lookin'  baby  in  nice  uniform?  Rot!  Don't 
you  talk  'bout  Kontze,  see  ?' " 

The  case  for  the  defense  opened  on  the  following 
day  with  the  testimony  of  Everett  and  others  as  to 
Jean's  character.  Mme.  Cavari  also  appeared,  able 
to  give  some  assistance  in  a  negative  way  to  his  cause. 
It  was  in  Hild's  evidence  that  the  interest  of  the  day 
centered.  Her  ordeal  was  not  complete  when  court 
was  adjourned.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Simeon  was 
purposely  prolonging  it.  She  kept  her  head  well 
during  cross-examination  on  the  third  day,  but  she 
could  not  feel  that  the  strength  of  the  case  against 
Jean  was  much  diminished.  She  thought  she  read 
defeat  in  Alford's  grave  face  and  Simeon's  averted 
eyes.  Misery  mauled  her  with  vicious  and  ugly 
hands.  It  was  then  that  she  found  that  Jean  was 
looking  at  her  fixedly.  They  met  with  sudden  com- 
pleteness as  she  answered  his  look,  in  spite  of  a 
present  which  was  a  fear  and  a  future  like  a  threat. 
She  was  so  deep  in  her  moment  that  she  did  not 
hear  what  Simeon  was  saying,  and  only  woke  at  the 
low  laughter  that  ran  like  a  suddenly  loosened  cord 
across  the  room.  She  turned  her  eyes  to  see  Mert 
Massam  in  the  witness-box. 

His  appearance  meant  little  to  her  until  Simeon 
had  established  the  identity  of  the  witness  with  the 
stranger  seen  with  Jean  and  Rale  on  the  afternoon 
of  April  1 5th.  Then  the  possible  importance  of  his 

254 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

testimony  began  to  stir  her  to  animation.  Mert 
had  given  a  push  to  the  heavy  attention  of  the 
court  with  his  first  words.  There  was  a  recovery,  a 
more  alert  attitude,  an  easier  settling  of  mental 
muscles.  Laughter  welled  now  and  again  to  the 
surface.  People  could  see  that  the  sunlight  had,  of 
a  sudden,  invaded  the  sober  precincts  of  the  room. 

Mert  had  come  to  his'  acquaintance  with  Jean, 
which  he  announced  in  his  own  way: 

"Alias  liked  him,"  he  said,  "doggone  fool  myself 
like  most  folks.  He  knows  things  here" — he  tapped 
his  chest — "an'  fiddle  'em."  In  pantomime  Mert 
sawed  at  an  imaginary  violin  with  an  imaginary  bow. 
"Other  folks  preach.  Say  'Mert,  ye  lazy  scamp, 
what  ye  doin'  loafin'  round  my  back  yard  ?' " 

He  was  here  interrupted  and  asked  to  keep  to  his 
point,  whereat  he  winked  at  Simeon  and  continued: 

"He  don't  preach.  He  fiddles.  If  I  ever  get  to 
heaven — don't  advise  you  to  bet  on  it,  sirs — I'll  lie 
on  my  back  an'  listen  to  him.  Golden  harps  won't 
be  in  it.  You  bet.  That's  why  I  come  to  New 
York  to  hear  the  opera.  Had  twenty-four  dollars 
and  fifty-four  cents,  mostly  pennies.  Gone  now. 
Come  on  and  went  to  his  place.  Found  him  there. 
Me!  Played  out!  Rag!  Him" — a  thumb  gesture 
again  at  Kontze — "he  told  me  lie  down  on  his  sofy. 
Did.  Woke  up  hearin'  voices.  Gal — that  one." 

Simeon  interrupted  with  a  "You  can  identify 
later.  Describe  your  people  now." 

"Wai,  'twas  that  one,  anyhow.  She's  got  hair 
255 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

color  of  potato  sacks  and  eyes  the  color  of  railroad 
rails,  and  she's  not  any  too  tall,  and  she's  skinny. 
That  'nough,  Sim?" 

Simeon  indicated  that  it  was. 

"That  gal  and  a  young  feller  they  called  Rale  was 
in  room.  Purty  soon  Kontze  says  to  me,  says  he: 
'Mert,  you  come  'long  with  me  'n'  this  boy.  He'll 
put  you  up.'  Young  Rale  didn't  look  happy.  Not 
much.  We  then  went  'long.  Not  fur.  Rale  he 
took  us  to  a  room  top  of  house.  Kontze,  he  said, 
'Have  you  no  room  on  the  earth,  Arthur,'  like  that. 
Rale  grunted.  Like  that.  When  we  got  to  Rale's 
door  a  man  opened  it.  Looked  out.  Rale  grunted 
something  couldn't  hear.  Kontze,  down  below,  says, 
'Who's  that,  Art,*  sharp.  Like  that.  Rale  says, 
'Nobody,'  sulky,  like  that.  We  went  farther  up. 
Pretty  soon  Rale  left  us.  Kontze,  he  says  to  me — " 

Simeon  interrupted: 

"Speak  louder  and  more  slowly,  please,"  he  asked 
Mert. 

The  man  continued,  his  ridiculous  face  oddly 
dignified  by  earnestness: 

"  Kontze  he  says  to  me,  says  he,  'Mert,  I  want  you 
to  do  something  for  me — yes.  I  want  you  to  watch 
that  boy  to-night.  There  is  something  here  I  do 
not  understand.  He  shakes  my  hand  in  a  strange 
way.  He  has  said  lately  many  strange  things. 
I  do  not  like  it.  If  that  was  Colhart  I  saw — I  do 
not  like  it — no.  If  you  think  there  is  any  trouble 
you  must  send  to  Mr.  Hanbury,  who  will  be  at  the 

256 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

theater.  You  saw  him  to-day.  He  will  know  better 
than  I  what  to  do.  Do  not  leave  Rale  for  this  night. 
He  has  promised  to  take  you  to  the  theater.  Do  not 
let  him  get  away  from  you  there.  You  under- 
stand?'" 

A  quickening  excitement  sped  from  face  to  face 
in  the  room.  Silence,  held  by  force,  was  its  expres- 
sion. Mert  went  on  to  tell  how  he  had  obeyed  Jean, 
that  he  had  watched  Rale  during  the  evening  and 
followed  him  surreptitiously  when  he  left  the  theater 
before  the  curtain  rose,  that  he  had  listened  at  his 
door  and  heard  enough  to  alarm  him.  At  last  there 
sounded  in  the  stillness,  like  a  pebble  dropped  in  a 
metal  bowl,  Simeon's  question: 

"Have  you  seen  this  note  before?" 

He  held  up  the  note  Marcia  had  handed  to  the 
court. 

"Can't  rightly  say  I've  seen  it,"  said  Mert, 
slowly.  "Wrote  it  in  the  dark.  Gave  it  to  boy — " 

"Repeat  as  nearly  as  you  can  what  it  says." 

Mert  recited  the  words. 

"Why  did  you  write  'Jean  Kontze  knows'?' 

Mert  chuckled. 

"Now,  Sim,  my  writin*  ain't  very  grand!" 

"Well,  no." 

"Folks  think  a  lot  o'  writin'  and  spellin'." 

"Yes." 

"Thought  to  myself,  'This  feller  '11  think  doggone 
fool  wrote  that.  Doggone  fool  don't  know  what  he's 
writin'.  Bumkum." 

257 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

"Then  you  thought  he  might  be  impressed  by 
Kontze's  name  and  sent  him  a  message,  or  possibly 
that  Kontze  might  have  spoken  to  Hanbury  before 
and  his  name  would  be  an  assurance  that  you  were 
his  man?" 

"Right!" 

Mert  went  on  to  testify  that  he  had  met  Hanbury 
in  the  corner,  had  told  him  the  scattered  words  he 
had  heard,  and  he  had  seen  Hanbury  run  into  the 
house.  He,  Mert,  stood  in  the  street  waiting.  He 
saw  and  heard  nothing  further  until  the  explosion. 
He  then  "skedaddled,"  to  use  his  own  expression, 
and  had  gone  home,  whence  he  had  been  summoned 
two  days  later  by  Simeon's  message. 

Such  was  Mert's  testimony.  What  followed  was 
a  keen  attempt  on  either  side  to  break  down  the 
evidence  of  the  other.  Mert's  story  never  changed 
nor  wavered.  Alec  Masterman  was  called  as  a 
witness  to  testify  to  Mert's  character  for  truthful- 
ness. The  boy  who  had  delivered  the  note  also 
appeared.  As  Simeon  declared,  a  dozen  witnesses 
could  be  found  in  twenty-four  hours  to  assure  the 
jury  that  Mert  never  had  been  caught  in  a  lie.  The 
attorneys  spoke,  putting  their  cases  before  the  jury 
and  judge — Alford  with  passionate  eloquence,  the 
district  attorney  with  cool  zeal.  The  judge  charged 
the  jury,  there  followed  half  an  hour,  of  all  half 
hours  in  Hild's  life  the  longest.  When  at  last  the 
jury  filed  in  and  the  foreman  rose  to  speak  the 
knowledge  of  what  he  would  say  fired  Hild's  soul 

258 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

before  the  words  had  left  his  lips.  As  one  reads  a 
telegram  for  which  one  has  waited,  knowing  that  if 
it  came  it  could  only  say  one  thing,  Hild  heard  the 
blessed  words  that  pronounced  Jean  "not  guilty." 
Then  a  curious  thing  happened.  Mert  Massam  sat 
behind  her  within  reach  of  her  hand.  She  turned 
around  and,  putting  two  hands  on  his  shoulders,  she 
said: 

"Oh,  Mert,  I  do  love  you." 

There  was  a  happy  riot  in  the  room.  At  last  Hild 
found  herself  near  Jean,  who  was  being  shaken  by 
the  hand,  while  a  succession  of  persons  said  foolish 
things  to  one  another  near  him.  It  was  long  before 
they  stood  alone  in  the  slanting  sunlight  at  the  door 
where  Cavari's  carriage  waited  for  them.  A  crowd 
had  gathered  outside,  and  now  set  up  such  a  cheering 
as  lifts  a  man's  heart  to  unfrequented  heights.  To 
Jean  it  meant  freedom — the  waking  from  evil 
dreams  which  the  soul  is  not  free  to  combat;  and  it 
meant  a  larger  freedom  than  that — freedom  to  the 
genius  in  him  to  find  its  home.  He  stood  before 
them  smiling,  not,  certainly,  a  splendid  figure  of  a 
man,  but  a  man,  none  the  less,  who  was  innocent 
and  had  suffered,  who  was  great  and  had  been 
ignored.  And  the  people  at  the  foot  of  the  court- 
house steps  cheered  as  if  they  meant  to  make  it  all 
up  to  him  in  a  minute.  Perhaps  they  did. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

r  I  ^HE  house  at  that  night's  performance  of  Brother 
1  had  that  packed,  vibrating  sympathy,  a  readi- 
ness to  understand,  which  acted  on  the  players  like 
some  magic  cordial.  It  had  been  given  out  that 
Jean,  freed,  would  conduct  the  orchestra,  and  an 
ovation  was  prepared  for  him  which  took  him  by 
surprise,  and  told  him  by  acclamation  that  his 
work  was  winged,  his  name  a  symbol.  He  him- 
self, too,  recent  danger  and  hardship  flinging  him 
their  dole,  was  a  hero.  A  man  who  could  do  so 
much  and  was  so  much,  caught  hold  of  by  publicity 
through  no  adroitness  of  his  own,  was  swung  upon 
a  wheel  of  rapid  events  to  a  high  niche  in  fame. 
American  hearts  responded.  American  hands  ap- 
plauded. We  are  not  a  people  to  grudge  a  man  his 
triumph. 

An  enthusiasm  embraced  Hild  as  she  appeared 
and,  not  understanding  why,  she  bowed  to  clapping 
hands  and  raised  faces.  The  opera  swept  on,  force- 
ful, spirited,  tragic,  tender,  and  sent  its  message  home 
to  hearts  and  minds  fit  to  receive  it.  Other  hearts 
and  minds  it  disturbed;  still  others — there  were  few 
— it  left  indifferent. 

When  it  was  over  Jean  and  Hild  left  the  theater 
260 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

together,  avoiding  the  crowd.  Jean  found  a  hansom, 
and  in  the  comparative  quiet  they  jogged  along,  the 
frosty  air  on  their  cheeks  and  the  stars,  surely 
brighter  than  ever  before,  above. 

"Aren't  we  going  home?"  asked  Hild,  as  they 
turned  down  Fourth  Avenue. 

"  Home  ?  No.  At  home  there  will  be  foolishness. 
There  will  be  talk.  You  will  see.  I  have  that  to 
say  to  you  which  is  not  talk.  We  will  go  to  Percer's. 
They  do  not  know  there  that  we  are  famous.  It  is 
good  to  be  famous.  Yes.  But  it  is  not  good  to  never 
forget  it.  We  must  forget  it  sometimes.  Otherwise 
we  cannot  bend  our  minds  to  many  things." 

Not  far  from  the  restaurant  they  dismissed  the 
cabby.  Hild  was  plainly  dressed,  and  Jean  had 
changed  his  evening  clothes  for  more  familiar  and 
shabbier  apparel. 

If  their  fame  had  not  spread  to  Percer's,  Percer's 
had  granted  them  a  fame  as  its  own  special  gift  long 
before.  They  were  asked  almost  at  once  to  amuse 
the  crowd.  Hild  smiled  at  Jean  and  nodded. 

"But — my  violin?  You  see,  I  can  make  music 
with  many  things,  but  with  bare  hands?  No." 

There  was,  however,  a  way,  since  there  was  a  will, 
and  an  old  man  in  a  corner  produced  a  violin,  which 
Jean  admitted  was  "Good,  very  good."  So  he 
played  and  Hild  danced,  and  men  clapped,  over  their 
beer,  great  hairy  hands,  free  of  glove;  women 
tapped  the  tables  and  stamped  their  toes  and 
nodded  dirty  ostrich  plumes  and  home-made  bows. 

261 


IS    IT    ENOUGH? 

And  then  Jean  and  Hild  had  supper,  as  they  often 
had  had,  at  the  greasy  little  table  under  the  stage, 
and  Hild  scarcely  knew  what  she  ate  or  why  she  ate 
it,  and  everything  vanished,  except  Jean's  face,  and 
then  came  back  again,  noisy  and  bright,  showing 
under  a  veil  of  smoke.  And  later  the  starry  night, 
surely  never  so  bright,  cooled  her  face,  and  she  was 
following  Jean  through  the  streets — was  it  a  dream  ? 
— between  empty  houses  and  full  ones,  down  a  narrow 
alley,  through  a  court  and  up  stairs  that  shook 
beneath  her  stumbling  steps,  cutting  the  darkness 
with  her  groping  hand — into  a  room  of  memories. 
There  were,  she  saw  when  Jean  lighted  the  lamp, 
the  same  bed,  the  same  chairs,  but  there  were  cur- 
tains at  the  windows  and — wonderful — a  fire  of  wood 
in  a  stove  set  near  the  chimney. 

"Come  here,"  said  Jean.  He  took  her  hand  and 
led  her  to  her  chair  near  the  fire.  He  took  her  hat 
and  jacket  from  her.  He  could  see  the  quick  breath- 
ing under  the  thin  silk  of  her  waist.  The  fire  and  the 
curtains  meant  so  much!  Otherwise  the  room  was 
as  bare  as  ever.  And,  oh — Hild  kissed  her  hands  to 
it — on  the  table  lay  Jean's  violin ! 

He  did  not  explain.  He  did  not  need  to  explain. 
Why  should  he  explain  himself? 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  crossing  his  knees,  and  he 
took  out  his  violin  and  began  to  play.  He  played  un- 
til by  sweet  approaches  he  had  laid  hands  on  her 
soul.  Then  they  began  to  talk  to  each  other,  she 
speaking  from  a  mind  held  deliberately  in  place. 

262 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

The  night  passed  by  them  with  averted  face.    He 
spoke  to  her  of  things  that  they  would  do. 

"  Freedom — she  has  come,  and  we  will  follow  her. 
But,  yes.  Bondage  we  bore.  It  is  over.  Maybe 
it  will  come  again.  We  shall  not  fear  it.  No,  we 
shall  fear  nothing.  To  fear  is  to  die.  But,  yes. 
I  have  seen  it  and  I  know.  To  fear — it  is  to  refuse 
to  be  free.  Hild,  I  told  you  long  ago  that  to  love 
you  must  be  brave.  A  man,  he  must  be  brave  to 
live;  a  woman,  she  must  be  brave  to  love.  We 
have  done  it. 

"I  will  tell  you  this,  my  woman  who  is  brave, 
many  things  will  come.  We  shall  wander  much, 
and  we  shall  see  much.  But  if  we  remember  all  that 
I  have  said  it  will  all  be  beautiful  as  it  is  in  my  music. 

"We  shall  see  beautiful  things,  but  we  shall  weary 
our  bodies  to  find  them.  We  shall  know  the  best, 
but  we  shall  have  to  endure  the  worst.  You  will 
cry  sometimes,  'I  am  tired,'  and  I  shall  say,  'Go  on. 
Is  it  your  business  to  be  tired?  No.'  I  shall  be 
cruel.  Sometimes  I  shall  hate  you,  sometimes  I 
shall  make  you  very  sorry.  That  is  not  my  business; 
my  business  is  to  live — yours  is  to  love!  And  is 
it  not  enough?  To-night  would  you  not  live 
through  all  things  for  another  night  like  this?  Is 
it  not  enough  to  love?  I  ask  you." 

"It  is  enough.     Yes,"  said  Hild. 

"Then,  remember  that.  If  you  think  because 
fame  has  come,  and  money,  the  hard  part  is  over, 
you  are  wrong.  For  every  bar  of  music  I  write  I 

263 


IS   IT   ENOUGH? 

must  live  the  equal.  For  every  moment  of  life  I 
must  feel  and  suffer,  and  so  must  you.  It  is  my 
glory — yes — and  but  for  it  life  would  be  silliness, 
and  I  should  leave  it.  I  have  brought  you  here 
because  you  will  understand  better  here  in  this 
room.  Yes?  Am  I  not  right?" 

"Yes;   I  understand." 

"So — understand  it  all,  my  little  one,  understand 
it  all  so  that  when  your  hair  is  white,  white  and  soft 
and  cherished  more  than  now,  you  may  be  ready 
for  all  that  is  to  come.  You  will  be  ready — but,  yes; 
and  one  day  you  will  uncurl  your  fingers — so — 
and  give  up  to  God  what  you  have  given  up  to  me — 
you!  You  will  not  resist;  you  will  not  be  very 
sorry;  you  will  understand.  It  is  the  great  thing 
to  understand. 

"  But  for  now  there  is  that  which  will  make  your 
heart  sing.  Sing,  yes — to  sob  the  more  one  day. 
But  that  is  part  of  the  understanding.  You  will 
bend  your  knees  in  thoughts  of  beauty  carved  in 
stone.  You  will  talk  with  me,  the  petals  of  flowers 
touching  your  skirts  everywhere,  and  the  mountains, 
the  color  of  mystery,  about  your  head.  You  will 
look  with  me  into  the  faces  of  the  great  and  learn 
there  how  to  meet  the  little  life  that  is  yours.  And 
I — there  will  be  times  when  I  shall  love  you — oh, 
but  love  you,  and  give  you  all  you  wish.  There  will 
be  times  when  my  arms  and  your  arms  will  be  all 
the  world;  when  your  soul  and  my  soul  will  meet, 
and  there  will  be  nothing  between. 

264 


IS    IT   ENOUGH? 

"And  one  more  thing  I  will  tell  you,  Hild.  I  will 
tell  it  to  you,  yes — and  then  I  will  look  at  your  face 
and  you  must  not  turn  it  away.  One  day  you  will 
have  a  son — yes.  And  you  will  hold  him  in  your 
two  arms.  And  you  will  have  paid  your  debt  to 
Heaven,  and  you  will  be  happy. 

"There  is  still  a  thing  to  say;  I  can  play  it,  yes, 
but  words  are  hard.  If  I  were  what  you  call  re- 
spectable I  should  wait  till  you  are  dead,  and  then 
I  should  put  it,  in  bad  rhyme,  upon  your  tombstone. 
But,  no,  I  am  not  respectable,  and  if  you  died  I 
should  not  trouble  about  a  tombstone.  So  I  will 
say  it  to  you  while  you  put  your  arms  around  me — 
See,  like  this.  Hild — it  is  true — I  love  you,  my 
little  one,  and  you  are  a  good  wife." 

And  in  a  moment,  in  the  quiet  of  the  night-locked 
city,  he  asked  her: 

"Is  it  enough?" 

She  answered  with  a  sigh. 


THE   END 


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DUE  2  WKS  HUM  ujft  Ktl'tlS 
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